New in Town
by fragrantfields
Summary: A President and an Admiral walk into a bar...a drabble that grew! A cancer-free A/U finds Bill Adama and Laura Roslin in 1879 Deadwood post-Hearst amongst the Gem folks. Rating for language, adult themes. Spoilers for Season 3 Deadwood.
1. Chapter 1

**New in Town**

**.**

"Name's Bill Adama. Says their horse bolted after High Cliff Pass and they lost their wagon. Walked into town after that."

Al Swearengen poured for them both.

"Don't sound likely."

"Nope, it don't. Says he used to be in the Navy, thinkin' about offerin' to set up a local militia here, for a price."

Swearengen looked over the railing.

"Looks the part. Never seen that kind of uniform."

Dan snorted. "Still better-dressed than the mayor."

"That redhead with him, she a working girl?"

Dan lifted an eyebrow. "Says that's his wife, name of Laura. Used to be a teacher."

"Looks like a dance-hall girl to me, way she's dressed."

Dan nodded. "I kindly hinted at an offer of work to her, but he said she wanted to get back to teachin' if she could. Probably just as well…she looks the type that'd be a trick to manage."

Al tossed back his whiskey.

"They got any money on 'em?"

"They got this." Dan tossed a squared-off gold coin on the desk. "Dude wanted to know if it'd buy them a bottle…said I'd let you decide."

Al weighed it in his hand, then walked over to the railing, looking down at the couple. Older than he first thought, the man looking rough and bull-strong, the woman having a sensual beauty, but a set to her mouth that looked like she could be a pain in the balls. She seemed to be more comfortable around the whores than her husband was, even with her having a perpetually raised eyebrow.

"Johnny! Set these folks up with a bottle."

He turned. "Offer lot 22, plus tent and stove. This'll buy two weeks."

"And front them some cash to send out for a decent dress for the redhead. She can't call on Mrs. Bullock like that."

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**A/N: For non-Deadwood fans, Mrs. Bullock runs the local school and is the sole teacher; the Gem is a saloon/brothel, Al's in charge of pretty much everything, and Dan's his right hand man.**


	2. Chapter 2

**New in Town, Part 2**

**.**

**Setting: The Gem Saloon, main bar-room**

Two men, weathered, dark, and roughly equal in stature and age, sat across a table, each taking the other's measure.

"I had thought I'd be working for the town."

"Does it matter?"

"You haven't given me enough information to answer that yet."

Al Swearengen snorted and called across the half-empty saloon.

"E.B.! C'mere a minute. Got someone for you to meet."

A scuttering little man made his way to the table where the two men sat. He oozed obsequiousness as he wiped his palms on his thighs again and again.

Al stood up with a cynical smirk.

"E.B., Bill Adama here is thinking about settling in Deadwood, might seek employment with the town. Why don't you give him some immediate past history while I inventory the whores, hmm?"

.

.

Twenty minutes later, whores monitored and tallies added twice, Al returned to the table. Bill's face looked like a thundercloud teetering at the edge of a pile of shit.

"Thanks, E.B." He pulled out a chair.

E. B. Farnum wiped his sweating cheeks on his dirty lace cuffs.

"Oh…I was just up to—"

Al lifted one eyebrow a centimeter before the little man moved up and back from the table, mouth finally closed. He was at the door before risking a thin "Welcome to Deadwood, Mr. Adama."

.

.

Bill nodded as Al held the bottle of whiskey over his glass.

"That, Mr. Adama, is the mayor, to whom you would be answerable, should you seek public employment."

Bill's shot glass hit the table, empty. He nodded again for another pour.

"I get your point."

"Thought you might."

"Can I ask a question?"

Bill scanned the saloon as Al nodded.

"Why does a saloon owner need his own private trained militia?"

He followed Al's gaze as he looked around the room, looked down at his bandaged hand, the missing finger, then looked at something Bill couldn't see.

"Havin' and not needin' beats the fuck out of needin' and not havin".

.

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**Setting: The Grand Hotel: Operator, E.B. Farnum**

**.**

"That lady in the red dress sure was purty." Richardson kept his eyes on the potatoes he was cutting up in a fine dice.

E.B. Farnum smacked the wild-haired man on the shoulder with a rusty ladle.

"And will you next, Richardson, tempt the Fates to rain down molten stone and ash on our heads as if we were inhabitants of Pompeii, to be cast, writhing in agony, as statues for eternity? You fool, did you not see the militaristic brute accompanying her?"

E.B.'s quivering increased, his pitch rising as he berated his cook.

"That fella in the blue soldier-lookin' suit?"

E.B. sat at the kitchen bench, wringing his shaking hands.

"A veritable Doppelganger to Al, save for the odd detail here and there, with the same ability to turn my unfortunate and beleaguered bowels to water with a look."

Richardson took up the carrots and his paring knife.

"I thought him and his lady looked like nice folk."

The mayor toyed with his threadbare cravat as he muttered "Keep your thoughts to yourself, shit monkey", wondering how he might best placate the new arrival, should the need arise.

.

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**Setting: The Gem Saloon, the room where the whores rest**

**.**

"You did very well at guessing my size."

Trixie fastened the last button at the back of the black patterned blouse.

"Couple of whores I used to work with had builds similar to yours."

Laura looked at the little blonde woman, more concealed by her clothes than the other women in the Gem. She seemed equal parts gritty and kind.

"You're a…a sex worker, then?"

That got a raspy laugh.

"I'm a fuckin' bank teller, if you can believe that. Used to whore here, though, for the cocksucker bending your husband's ear. Now I just fuck the Jew that runs the hardware store and has an eye to bein' mayor, we ever get a fair election in town."

She paused in her task of putting up the mass of red hair as Laura issued a sound between a cough and a giggle.

"You need some water? Whiskey?"

The former President of the Twelve Colonies patted her chest until she regained some self-control.

"I'm fine, thanks. So…you don't work here now?"

"I might do a turn or two for_ himself_, keep things runnin' smooth. Like buying you somethin' decent and lettin' you dress indoors. Hard for a woman, tryin' to make do in a fuckin' tent."

Trixie let the thick strands of reddish auburn hair flow through the comb before tightening them into sedate twists.

"You dye your hair?"

Laura shook her head absently, using the mirror to take in the slightly shabby room behind her. Medicinal-looking bottles shared space with pots of cosmetics and jars of greasy-looking ointments.

.

"Who's she?"

A plump big-bosomed woman stood in the doorway, nervously twirling a strand of dyed red hair in her fingers.

Before Trixie could answer, Laura had stepped over to the other woman, extending her hand.

"I'm Laura…Adama. We just got into town."

"Oh."

At Trixie's glare, she offered that her name was Dolly, and tentatively shook the proffered hand.

"You belong to that man sitting with Al?"

Laura calmed her instinctive bristle and thought of cultural and gender-role diversity.

"She ain't a whore, Dolly. That's her husband out there. She's fixin' to go see Mrs. Bullock about bein' a teacher."

Trixie gave Laura a pointed look as she combed. "Can't say why she walked in here looking like a fuckin' travelin' stage dancer with no undergarments to speak of and her hair hangin' loose…." She paused to gather a few hairpins. "But it gave Al enough of a turn to send me to fetch her some teacher-ish clothes. There!"

Trixie stood back as Laura looked in the mirror. Her red hair was tamed in a sedate roll at her back of her neck. Her body was covered from throat to toes in a black shirtwaist blouse and skirt, scattered with a tiny white print. Her body was covered again underneath by cheap cotton long underpants, thick black stockings, and a camisole. She had stood her ground at the steel-ribbed corset and Trixie hadn't pressed the point. Laura hugged the small bundle of her New Caprica clothes as she tried to force her feet by sheer will to hurry up and adjust to the black buttoned boots.

_Bill better not say one frakking word about this get-up_, she thought to herself.

Dolly gave her a shy smile as Laura walked gingerly towards Bill and the saloon owner.

"Sure hope things go well for you over at the schoolhouse, Mrs. Adama."

This last carried solemn sincerity. Even with being old enough to be any of 'ems mama, Laura Adama was pretty and trim enough to be worrisome, especially with that glorious hair.

"Hey."

Dolly jumped at Trixie's sharp elbow in her side.

"Quit worryin'. I got a good look at her man. You ain't got nothing to worry about."

"How do you mean?"

Trixie firmed up a hand-rolled cigarette before striking a match and holding it to the end.

"What I mean, Dolly, is even if Al was to be interested, if it came to putting her man up against Al, I ain't sure which way I'd bet."

Both women were silent, contemplating that strangeness as they watched the smoke curling up towards the ceiling, then fading into the air.

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**Reviews, concrit, or comments are greatly appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**New in Town, Part 3**

**.**

**The main saloon at the Gem**

Bill could tell by her stiffness that it would be best if he refrained from commenting on her attire, at least until they were alone.

"I apologize for entering your establishment in such inappropriate clothing. Our mishap…" Laura waved her hand in a vague gesture that could have meant anything. She had rehearsed her remark on her awkward walk over to the two men, trying to get it said with a straight face when there were bare-breasted women scattered around the room and a screened corner marked "_Titty licks-5 cents_".

"Of course." A nod and a comment that also could have meant anything from the proprietor, now on his feet.

"Mr. Adama, shall we sequester ourselves in my office to continue this while I arrange escort for your wife to the schoolhouse?"

Bill looked at Laura, gauging her comfort level at this suggestion. She gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Please."

Al eyeballed the available men at the bar, all keeping a watchful eye on the stranger and avoiding staring openly at the redhead.

"Adams! Walk Mrs. Adama to the school. Bring—" He gave her a smile that bordered on patronizing. "I mean, _escort _her back here after she's completed her meeting with Mrs. Bullock."

"Yes sir, boss." Silas Adams nodded at Bill before guiding Laura out of the saloon, not quite touching her arm. Bill noted a sidearm on the man's hip and his gait suggested another weapon in his boot.

.

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**Out and about in the ****thoroughfare**

Laura caught her breath at the strong odor of horse urine and dung in the street. She supposed she had been too nervous to notice when they arrived.

A flurry of bright colors and pink and white flesh drew her eye to the balcony of a building across the thoroughfare. An assortment of young girls hung over the railing, calling out invitations to the men passing by. Their tones were joyful and lewd but even from the street she noted a skittishness in the eyes of some of the girls. Their skittishness turned to fear as a smooth-groomed older man came out on the balcony behind them, smoking a cigar. Laura watched him speak quietly to a young woman beside him, prompting an uneasy laugh and artificial smile. Something about the man reminded her of the interrogator on _Pegasus. _He pulled the young woman into the building by her arm, biting off words to the other girls assembled.

"Mr. Adams…who was that?"

"Nobody you'd want to meet, ma'am. Name's Cy Tolliver, runs the Bella Union."

"Like Mr. Swearengen runs the Gem."

He cleared his throat, fighting a wry chuckle.

"I wouldn't say one was like the other, ma'am, but far as both runnin' saloons, that's correct."

She stepped around a fresh steaming pile of horse dung and some chicken guts, steadying herself on his arm.

"The girls look better dressed at the Bella Union…but much more…unhappy than the girls at the Gem."

"Yes, ma'am."

They walked in silence to the schoolhouse and Deadwood's only teacher.

.

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**Al Swearengen's office, upstairs at the Gem**

"What happened to your gun?"

Al shot a deliberate look to Bill's right hip.

At Bill's silence, he continued. "You look like a man used to more hardware on your belt."

"Long story. Might need another one."

Al nodded thoughtfully. "What's your preference?"

Bill kept his hands loose and easy on his thighs. "I'm not picky. Something like your Mr. Adams carries would work."

"You lose your gun when your wagon went over?"

"Something like that."

The bottom drawer opened with a snick. Al looked into its shadows, then back at the dark stranger, eyes glittering.

"Mr. Adama…you plannin' on tellin' me the truth about how you come to be stranded here?"

A beat passed…then another. The air was electric between them as they measured and sniffed like alpha wolves. Al's fingers were brushing lightly against the hilt of his favorite knife when Adama spoke again.

"No."

"Mighty saucy for an unarmed man." His hand stilled as he rolled the novel response around in his head.

The man's military bearing seemed to expand out into the room. _Rare for such self-confidence to be displayed here and not be the affectations of a fool, _Al thought.

Bill's hands stayed easy still.

"You have any questions, go ahead. My answers'll be the truth."

"Meanin' there may be questions you'll decline to answer."

"Yeah."

The room still smelled like Trixie's last cigarette. Not even a deliberately deep breath brought a whiff of the cat-piss smell of liars. Al relaxed his fingers, let them hover over the bottle and glasses instead.

"You want a blow job while we talk?"

This never failed to bring a reaction from whatever cocksucker sat in the opposite chair. The one that came, though, was not one he had expected.

Bill chuckled.

Not the nervous chuckle of the last guy, the Pinkerton man who'd gurgled out his life's blood over Al's blade soon thereafter, but an honest laugh.

"You don't really look like you've still got the knees for it."

.

.

Dan did a double-take as he sat on the bench outside Al's office. _Might be a death-rattle, but damn if it didn't sound more like…Al laughing._

_._

.  
>"So, no bandits, no road agents involved."<p>

Bill tried to suss out the meaning behind the question but it was past him.

"No. No one else involved. Why?"

Al poured second shots for both.

"Anyone operates in the Hills without my leave, that's a problem. A mistake rarely repeated but egregious enough to require a response."

He downed his drink. "Where's your gear?"

He raised an eyebrow at Adama's even-toned "Not your concern."

_Cocksucker sounds like me,_he thought.

He poured refills and called for Dan as they got down to the mechanics and particulars of what would be required to turn a motley group of brigands, townsfolk, Chinks, and one dwarf (who was hell with a knife) into a semblance of a civil defense militia.

**A/N: Hope readers are enjoying this so far. Please review, whether it's thumbs up or thumbs down :-)**


	4. Chapter 4

**New in Town, Part 4**

Laura made her way around the schoolhouse, looking up into the branches of the tall tree growing through the center of the floor. She laid a hand on the rough bark covering the trunk, getting the smell of oak on her fingers.

"I've never seen anything quite like this. It's very…alive, a very strong symbol for the children."

Martha Bullock broadened her polite smile at the redheaded stranger who sought a teaching position.

"That's a lovely way to look at it, Mrs. Adama. The children do enjoy it, and it's my personal belief that the imagination and curiosity it encourages in their minds is a help to their learning."

The temptation to discuss learning models and probe into this era's teaching practices was strong, but Laura kept biting her tongue. From the oddly shaped four-cornered books to the pile of small chalkboards, the room was full of artifacts that she should be familiar with if she was Mrs. Bullock's contemporary.

The tall blonde woman was dressed as conservatively as Laura, in richer fabrics with more decoration. Her posture and appearance reminded her of Caprica 6 in some ways…the ready smile, the sense of inner strength, the serious eyes.

And a wisp of an air of sadness that came and went as they talked.

"Why don't you come and visit tomorrow and observe for a time, meet the students? If that goes well, we can consider how to divide the children according to their abilities and their needs."

"That sounds wonderful." Laura was surprised how much she looked forward to being in a classroom again. "So that I have an understanding of the material I'd be teaching, could I borrow a couple of schoolbooks this evening?"

Martha glanced at the row of books on a knee-high bookshelf.

"Of course." She ran her finger down the spines of the books. "I'm sure this looks quite sparse compared to the schools back east, but a few of us townswomen are trying to establish a small town library. Books are so important to a community…." She thumbed through a book on geography, then pulled out a battered history book, running her hand over the faded cover.

"These should give you an idea of where we are, academically."

Laura accepted the books with the same reverence displayed by the teacher, gently opening the history book, reading the inscription aloud.

"'William Bullock'." She smiled. "William is my husband's name." She fought the urge to giggle at the "husband" reference.

Her smile faded as Mrs. Bullock paled, trying to keep a polite smile on her lips, and failing.

"I…William was my son." She braced herself for the usual polite but painful inquiry that usually followed mention of her son to people who hadn't been in camp that summer. The hows, the whens, the whys still scraped new flesh off her healing heart, even two years later.

She opened her mouth to provide the brief dry monologue that usually forestalled further questions, closing it again when Laura Adama simply rested her hand on Martha's forearm with a soft "I'm sorry".

Something in her demeanor made Martha certain that this woman had known similar loss herself, knew the comfort in sometimes allowing words to remain unspoken. Both women reflected to themselves that the other had kind, compassionate eyes before they turned again to the books.

As they walked to the door, Martha paused by the tree.

"Will your husband be working soon, do you think?"

"That's what he and Mr. Swearengen are discussing right now, I believe."

"I see."

Laura sensed an increased reserve coming over Mrs. Bullock.

"I assumed he orchestrated your coming here, with Mr. Adams accompanying you. I didn't realize your husband was seeking employment with him."

"Is that…should I be concerned?" She shifted the borrowed books to one hip, and wondered why the other woman seemed uneasy. Mentally smacking her forehead, she realized that a schoolteacher would likely disapprove of a man who employed prostitutes and ran a bar.

"I take it the Gem is a pretty rough place…?"

"Sit down, Mrs. Adama." Martha patted the circular bench that had been built around the imposing tree.

"Mr. Swearengen is…still a powerful man in Deadwood, although his influence is somewhat reduced these days, I suspect somewhat by his own volition." She paused, seeking that middle ground between frightening the new teacher and giving her enough truth to not underestimate the man.

Laura waited patiently, hands folded over the books in her lap.

"I have welcomed Mr. Swearengen into my home, and seated him at my table. I have trusted him to work with my husband for the common good of the town, when my husband was Sheriff."

"But, to give you a complete picture, I should tell you this: the first time I laid eyes on Mr. Swearengen, he was seconds away from cutting my husband's throat with a concealed knife pulled from his boot, both of them bloody from trying to beat each other senseless in the street."

As horrific as it had been, she almost smiled at the absurdity of that pivotal day, back when she could be still be shocked by a bloody thug yelling _"Welcome to fucking Deadwood!"_

"That, Mrs. Adama, was my introduction to Deadwood and Albert Swearengen. Not to malign a man who has never been untoward or unkind to me personally, but he does seem to view murder as a reasonable tool of business. You may wish to consider sharing that with your husband."

Martha wasn't sure what reaction she had been expecting, but it wasn't the composed, almost serene smile and amused turn of the eyes as the redhead rose from the bench.

"Thank you for sharing that, Ms. Bullock. I will share this with Mr. Adama, but I doubt he'll see this as a deterrent to working with him. He's…no stranger to such men, nor am I. And as you can see, we're both still standing."

Martha nodded to herself. The Adamas seemed like they might be a good fit for Deadwood, if this woman's man was anything like her. Leaving the new teacher to the protection of Silas Adams, she found herself humming as she did a final straightening up of the room.

**A/N: A quick youtube search for Welcome to Deadwood should pull up the scene from Season 1,Ep. 1 Martha Bullock references here, for those readers who haven't watched much of Deadwood, if you'd like a visual.**

**Thanks for reading and if you have comments, pro or con, please review!  
><strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**New in Town, Chapter 5**

.

"I said _I'd _walk the lady back, Adams."

"Al told me to—"

"Fuck Swearengen and fuck whatever he told you to do. My wife's new associate is not going to be squired around town by one of his men."

The clench-jawed rangy man on the school steps jutted his chin towards Mr. Adams, right hand closing into a fist. _Looks like the teacher had married a real hot-head, _Laura thought to herself.

"Excuse me…is there a problem?" Laura had no shortage of experience with hot-heads, but that had not increased her patience with them.

He turned towards the cool voice. He hadn't been sure what to expect when he saw Swearengen's man on the front steps, but this sedately dressed woman with flashy red hair had been a surprise. Her calm green-eyed direct look had an uncomfortable lack of decorum…almost held a challenge.

She didn't look like any of the teachers he'd ever had.

"I'm Seth Bullock. Mrs. Bullock's husband. This man here says you're looking to help my wife teach."

"We've been discussing my teaching here, yes."

"I'd walk you back to your husband, then. Wouldn't want the children's parents in town getting the wrong idea, you being with one of _his_ men."

Closer now, Laura could see the thin tracery of red in the whites of the man's eyes, smelled a hint of last night's whiskey coming from his pores. She tensed until she felt a steadying presence at her back.

"Mr. Bullock, this is Mrs. Adama. I'm sure she'd welcome your accompanying her back to the Gem along with Mr. Adams." Laura stiffened at the tone, icy courtesy with an undercurrent of disappointment.

"You're on your way back to…the _Gem_?"

"My husband is working with the owner. We plan to rent quarters from him."

The flush in his cheeks reminded her of Col. Tigh after a bender with Ellen's name on it. He seemed an odd match for the strong, sedate Martha, who was growing less sedate by the second.

"I'm sure her husband must be wondering what's keeping her. I'll see you at dinner." She turned her back to the open door, looking over her shoulder. "Perhaps you can point out some of the local luminaries on your walk back. I imagine the President of Deadwood Bank is still hard at work."

She shut the door behind her with a sharp final click.

Silas Adams looked between Bullock and Mrs. Adama, suppressing a grin. Served Bullock right; if he was determined to keep going around with a stick up his ass over Mrs. Ellsworth, he shouldn't be surprised that his wife would yank on it from time to time.

"Mrs. Adama, why don't you walk with Sheriff—sorry-_Mr._ Bullock, and I'll trail behind." He offered a wry smile. "I've gotten good at that."

.

The late afternoon sun cast the town in a forgiving golden glow, although it did nothing to help the smell. The hills surrounding the basin of the town were already black with shadows. Laura would have liked to have asked question after question about the side streets, the open-air businesses on the wooden sidewalk, the stands selling fresh meat and hot bread, but her escort walked like a man on his way to a fistfight. She braced herself and called on her inner politician.

"Mr. Bullock, what's that over there?"

He slowed his pace. "The cemetery."

"I see…and that building?"

"Theater."

"Ah. And what's down that alley? It looks quite busy."

"Chink Alley. That's where the Chinese live. I don't see Mr. Wu around, but if your husband's working for Swearengen, I'm sure you'll be meetin' him before long."

She thought she heard a snort behind them, but when she turned, Silas' face was composed.

"Over there is the Number 10 Saloon, where the town's Sheriff works as a second-rate barman. The democratic process at work," he sneered.

Seeing Laura's expression, Silas leaned forward to flesh out the bitter remark. "Crooked election last year, got a less-than-ideal candidate elected to the position over Bullock here. Shame for the town…Bullock was the better man but not to the likin' of him who had money enough to fix the vote."

Bullock turned to Silas with an angry puzzled look.

"That some kind of back-handed compliment?"

"For the man you were then? One who wrote the letter to Pasco's family…that stood with us when Hearst came with his hired guns? Yeah. You were the better man."

Bullock closed in enough so Silas could hear his bitten-off words through gritted teeth.

"I don't need to be that man anymore. And Mrs. Adama doesn't need to hear our ancient fucking history."

"Bullock…."

"Excuse my language, Mrs. Adama, " he grumbled.

She tried to see behind the angry, disgusted words. He reminded her of some of the walking wounded on Galactica, full of self-hatred and fury at their impotence to keep others from harm. Tigh, after New Caprica. The Chief, after…after so many disasters large and small. There was something else, though...something that reminded her of how Lee could get after being around Kara and Sam, even after he had put a ring on Dee's finger.

_Gods_, she thought. _It's like there's only a handful of stories in the universe, and we just keep living them out over and over._

The jangling music of the piano player got louder as they walked towards the Gem. She stepped around a disheveled man yelling "Soap! Soap with a prize inside!" A sudden longing hit her for a quiet tent, a bedroll, and Bill, warm and solid in the dark.

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	6. Chapter 6

**New in Town, Part 6**

**.**

The room was larger than she would have thought from the outside. Certainly larger than the tent they passed at lot 22. A brass-framed bed that was larger than Bill's rack was pulled out a bit from the wall, the edge of a faint brownish stain barely peeking out from underneath.

A couple of battered chairs, a writing desk, a chest of drawers with deep scratches marring its finish, and a washstand completed the furnishings. A small stove in the corner would provide heat in the winter, she supposed. Maybe hot water for a quick washing up. Old cooking smells rose up from the floorboards, hammy and thick. The window, open just a crack, allowed a mild breeze with the hint of "latrine" into the room.

"So cubits are worth more than you thought?"

Bill shrugged. "I get the feeling that they're worth whatever Swearengen says they are. He gave me an advance on my pay, had a meeting of the minds with the mayor, next thing I know, the mayor was checking me in."

At her puzzled glance, he added, "the mayor runs this place."

"Oh, Gods…he's a strange little man. So how'd your meeting go?"

He sat on the least rickety chair and pulled together the day's impressions.

"When I was a kid once, I was spending some time with my uncle and his husband in the city. I had to wait in a bar for a while for him to meet with his boss. His local Ha'la'tha boss. I remember he wasn't a big guy, but even I could tell he was the one guy in the joint that nobody wanted to cross. Wasn't brawny, wasn't heavily armed…hell, I don't remember him having any weapons on him at all. But he was the guy who could get you dead with the flick of an eyelash. He could get you what you needed just as easy, if it suited his purpose."

Bill nodded to himself, satisfied with his assessment.

"That's_ this_ guy."

"You going to tell me about the uniform?" Laura stood close, and ran her index finger down the buttons on the chambray shirt until it rested on the heavy belt buckle. She ran her finger over the smooth metal oval.

"He said I looked too much like a deserter. Wanted to keep my background 'a bit less obvious to the hoopleheads'." He shrugged.

She looked at the borrowed satchel filled with clothes. "Seems like a lot."

He opened it and started taking out folded shirts, pants, mounds of patterned material, and…_oh, frak,_ she thought. _One of those corsets._

"He thought you were getting a bit soft around the middle?" She raised an eyebrow as she held up the sturdy cotton-covered garment, the laces pulled through the grommets and tied in a bow. It didn't look especially feminine.

He gave a grunt of irritation. "That's for you. He had that blonde woman, the smoker, go get a few more things for you. She's got an insubordinate mouth on her."

Laura grinned at his assessment of Trixie. Apparently she had been as free with her thoughts around him as she had been with her.

He held out a bundle of thin white cotton, trimmed with eyelet lace and a sky-blue ribbon. "Said she couldn't figure out 'why the fuck he couldn't have told her she was pickin' out a fuckin' trousseau on her first trip' and was he going to be sending her to fetch each item, garter by garter? "

She frowned as she ran her hand over the soft fabric. "What do you make of him being the Ha'la'tha boss type, and her feeling so free to be disrespectful? She said she used to work for him…I'd think that would have the opposite effect."

He stretched, pulling out the kinks that had developed as he had hunched over crude maps and lists.

"I think they had something with each other once. And she reminded me of Kara…always pushing things a little further than most, and getting away with it more often than not." He grinned as he took the bundle from her and started putting things away in neat piles in the drawers.

"She's got strong opinions about _you_, that's for sure. Told me 'good luck' getting you into 'that fuckin' corset she ain't got no intention of wearin'. And what's so frakking funny?"

She tried to stifle the giggle that she knew was coming. "Every time you say "fuck" it reminds me of a little boy who wants so badly to curse like the big boys but just can't quite get it right."

.

.

She glanced at the display of antlers and moose head on the way back up the stairs.

"And I was so looking forward to fresh food again." The chunks of stewed elk lay heavy in her stomach.

"We'll get used to it. The fresh carrots were good." He turned the key in the lock of their door.

"The ham smelled better. Why'd you give me the frown over the ham?"

"Swearengen said the pork in town might have a bit of a human aftertaste, advised against it."

She paled in the dim hallway torchlight. "Why would they—"

"No airlocks."

She wrinkled her nose. "Early protein recycling. Lovely."

He opened a bottle of whiskey that he'd left on the dresser. "Want some?'

"I don't suppose there's anything like ambrosia around?"

"Nope. Just this stuff, about on a par with cheap Tauron whiskey."

She sighed. "Fine."

She took the glass and sat in the more rickety chair. It felt good to be off her feet, although at some point, she had apparently gotten used to the awkward buttoned shoes. They weren't that different from her pumps, but as with her dress heels, she wanted out of them now, ready to curl her legs under her, if it could be managed while so covered in fabric.

"What did you decide as far as salary and duties?"

"Duties were kind of loose…he's one of those bosses that tack on "and other duties as may be assigned." Seems like the town had a kind of invasion some time back, by a private force, maybe former military. The town had plenty of armed men, but no real organization for resistance."

"They were occupied? The town doesn't have that kind of feel to it." She sipped at the harsh spirits, her tongue and throat starting to burn.

"He didn't say much about that, just that an 'ugly but fortuitous happenstance of similarities in tits and snatch' saved the town from destruction, along with what he referred to as 'an obscene financial transaction between the bank widow and a magnate of monstrous proportions'."

"Good Lords of Kobol…he certainly expresses himself differently from any Ha'la'tha bosses I've seen in detective books."

"Tell me about it. One minute he's asking me if I plan to spend much of my pay on pussy and the next it's all this overblown stuff. Part crime boss, part erudite town father."

He winked at her over the top of his glass. "You should have been there. It was pretty entertaining."

She held out her right foot in a silent appeal for some help with her boots.

"What'd you tell him about your plans for your pay?"

He tugged the boot off, wrapping strong fingers around her ankle and squeezing lightly before running his hand up her calf, rough skin catching on the heavy cotton.

"Told him I was good in the pussy department. What all do you have under there, anyway? It'd be nice to touch skin sometime tonight."

He laughed as he dodged the second boot tossed in his direction.

"Be nice, Roslin…I don't think you're getting out of all that without help."

.

TBC...

.


	7. Chapter 7

Bill studied the small shell buttons glowing in the lamplight against the black printed fabric. They were tiny and the row was long. Before starting the downward path, his fingers ran across her back and he found himself folding her into his arms, holding her against his chest and just letting her…_lean_. She held still for a heartbeat, then breathed out completely for the first time, it seemed, since they landed, pressing into his warmth. Her eyes closed against the oil flame, still seeing the flickers through her eyelids.

.

"It's going to be okay, Laura." He whispered the reassuring words into the red hair coiled near her ear.

She let her head rest against his mouth. "What if the signal's too weak? Or there's something in the environment that blocks it?" She turned harder into his lips, trying to get her ear close enough to discern any tones of doubt. "What if it gets stolen? Or just…breaks down?"

She drew a shaky breath. "What if they decide it's too much risk, and they just…jump away?"

He ran his warm hands up and down her arms. "None of that is likely. And if it is…if we're stuck here…" he wrapped his arms across her breasts. "It wouldn't be the end of the world."

Her hand crept up over his forearm resting on her left breast. Her fingers dug into his skin as she whispered, "What if it comes back?"

"What if it hadn't gone away? Shh, Laura…" he gently swayed back and forth with her, a subtle silent dance. "I'm ready to take what I've got. What I've got feels good right now." His breath was hot on her ear. "Take it with me."

He could feel her face move against his as her lips curved up. "You telling me what to do?"

"Stand down, Roslin. That's an order."

"Admiral, are you ordering me to stop worrying?"

His palms opened and glided over her cotton-covered breasts. "Yeah, pretty much. Worrying's a command responsibility. And right now, there's no point in it."

She dropped her hands to the front of his thighs behind her, freer now that she had the permission she needed to drop her various fears. His thighs were warm and solid under the rough fabric.

"Yes, sir."

"Better?"

"I think so."

"Good." He moved her away from his body be a few inches. "Let's get you out of this." His fingers returned to the buttons.

He had seen plenty of her skin over the past couple of years, but not under the glow of oil lamps burning within frosted glass globes. The back of her neck, the tops of her shoulders shone a light rosy gold, a little redder where the cheap cotton had rubbed against her skin.

"I like your hair up."

" I thought you loved my hair loose and wavy," she teased.

"Yeah, but this is nice, too…the access." He put his lips to the part of her neck usually hidden by her hair, opening his mouth to suck and lick at the salty flesh, nipping at the delicate swelling of her vertebrae under the skin.

His hands still stayed gentle on her breasts, especially the left. The flesh at the base of her neck had never been sick, though, never hidden a deadly time bomb, and he felt freer to press hard, sink his teeth in deep, suck until his tongue was aching. All the things he had wanted to do to her nipples but had held back, he played out on this soft skin.

"Bill! Gods, take it…unh…." She bowed her head lower as he teased knots of nerve endings she hadn't realized were there. She had been so protective of her breasts for so long, she had forgotten the jolt of stimulation flying from nipples to clit. _This was almost as good_, she thought.

Then his mouth and teeth fell on an area just above her left shoulder blade, and she redacted the mental "almost" as she made a breathy sound deep in her throat.

"You okay?"

"Frak, yes, I'm okay. Keep doing that and get the godsdamned buttons undone."

His low chuckle made her bite her lip against an answering groan. She pressed back against him, the big belt buckle scraping against the skirts covering her ass.

"Careful there, Mrs. Adama. You own even less clothes now that usual."

"Bill…". He heard the warning in her voice.

The long row of buttons undone, they worked to slip her blouse down her arms and fold it neatly over the back of the chair.

He kept his hands on her collarbone and continued exploring her back with his mouth. She tasted of smoke and salt, and the tang of the day's sweat. Her fingers on one hand skittered over his thighs, her other hand pressing against the layers of cloth still covering her clit, her folds that had started to swell and pulse. He smiled at her back as he ran his right hand down her arm and realized where the heel of her hand was.

"I'm doing something you like?"

"Um-hum…."

"Let's get this off, see what happens." He started on the buttons at the side of her skirt.

Two buttons later and the skirt was puddled on the floor. He bent and folded it as carefully as the blouse. When he turned, he found eager hands at his belt.

"This has got to go."

Yanking the leather free from his belt loops, she dropped the heavy buckle to the floor with a loud clank.

"Slow down, Red. We've got some time before the earliest possible rescue. We're not on the clock here."

She batted his stroking hands away as she explored him though his shirt, pinching his nipples as well as she could, squeezing fabric and flesh, before starting on his shirt buttons.

"So we're stranded, for the time being, no Quorum meetings, no CIC duty…no agendas…"

He nodded as he grabbed her hand to lick between her fingers, running his tongue over her lifeline.

"No reporters, no Fleet allotments and requisitions…"

She pulled his shirt off, flinging it in the direction of the chair. She stared at the long-sleeved undershirt that snapped up the front, then started to yank it out of his pants to get it off hm as well.

"Ow! Damn, woman, wait a minute!"

She ran her hand under the waistband of his thick pants. "Where does…oh."

"Yeah, it's all one piece. And this is as close to a kick in the balls as I'd like to get tonight."

"Oh, Gods, Bill…". He sighed as the giggles took over, using the time to unbutton his pants and shuck them off.

She had just gotten herself under control when the full effect of his gleaming white long johns hit her.

"Oh, much sexier than tanks," she giggled, her shoulders shaking until she started appreciating the view. There was an oddly erotic contrast between the soft white cotton and his dark skin showing in one long vee from his throat to his crotch, the red scar like an arrow pointing to glory. The dusky shadow of his erection showed through the fabric that went on to cup his balls, perhaps a bit more snugly that designed, and fit as tightly down his legs as her stocking fit hers.

The giggles faded into a husky murmur. "No kidding, Bill…that's actually…pretty nice." She flowed into his arms then, for a sweet leisurely kiss, wrapping his arms around his waist, licking at his mouth while she grabbed his ass…and pulled back, hand over her grin.

"You have _snaps_ on your_ ass_."

He huffed. "I'm starting to think I got a pain in my ass, too. Now, would you just—"

"Turn around. I have got to see this."

He sighed. "Fine. I need a drink anyway."

He deliberately turned towards the dresser and the bottle of cheap whiskey. As her laugher bubbled up behind him, he decided to forgo looking for the glasses in the dim shadows and put the open bottle to his lips. One swallow down, the next was half-spit out as wicked little fingers flicked the snaps of the ass-flap open and raked along his skin.

"Laura…." He warned.

She pulled her hand back and hugged him from behind, tucking her hands inside the soft fabric to stroke his skin, running her fingers down over his ribs to the length of his cock. She could feel his heartbeat when she laid her cheek against his wide back.

"This is nice."

He took her wrists as he turned to face her.

"It's about to get nicer."

He scooped her up and sat her down on the bed, springs protesting, and went to one knee, taking her right foot and resting it on his thigh. He ran his hands up past her petticoat.

"Now, how exactly do these work?"

Then he felt the ribboned garter at the stocking top.

"Never mind."

She lay back, setting the springs to singing again, and let him figure it out.

.

.

Red hair, loose and wild, half-covered her mouth as she turned her head. The cacophony of the bedsprings and the repeated crack of the brass headboard against the wall had finally driven them to the floor, although she suspected they'd just traded metallic squeaks and bangs for the rhythmic thumping of flesh and wood.

She shivered as the cool air of the room hit the backs of her thighs, still wet with their sweat. The room was heavy with their sex-scents, almost covering the smell of dust and old blood. Laura wrinkled her nose as she raised herself up on her hands, pushing away from the thin worn carpet.

"I'm going to have bruises on my knees tomorrow."

He ran his hands over her damp back, ending at her shoulders as he pulled her back to take him deep one more time, riding out their final aftershocks.

"I bet Doc Cochrane has an unguent for that."

He kissed the back of her neck and reluctantly pulled out of her heat, drawing soft groans from them both.

He groaned again, a few minutes later, when after a quick wash in the china basin, Laura slipped her chemise back on and handed him the book on geography. Snapping himself back into his long johns, he lay down beside her as she opened the history book, glasses perched primly on her nose. The bed springs continued to murmur as they cuddled into each other, each with a book in their hands, as they began to read about this strange new world.

.


	8. Chapter 8

Dust motes danced in the morning's first sun coming through the grimy windows of the Gem. A sleepy whore was giving the last handjob that stood between her and a few hours' sleep in her narrow bed, her customer squeezing his eyes shut against the light and his impending spend. Smells of bread toasting on the cook-stove and eggs starting to sizzle in butter wafted in to hit against the night's smell of liquor, smoke, and sweat. An early morning chill came through the door, followed by the scruffy little mayor.

"Morning, E.B."

Dan shoved the coffee pot across the bar and went back to his whetstone and knife.

"Good morning, Dan." The little man's voice dropped to a whisper. "Are you readying yourself to be dispatched on some nefarious and secretive mission, acting, perhaps, in orchestration with the bizarre newcomers in our midst?"

Dan rolled his eyes at a puzzled Johnny, looking on.

"Nope. Just sharpenin' my fuckin' knife."

"E.B." Al looked over the rim of his reading glasses. "Get a fuckin' cup and get over here."

He went back to reading his paper at his battered table while E.B. settled in the chair across from him.

"What should I know?" He kept reading as E.B. doffed his ragged top hat and fiddled with his spoon.

"An odd couple, with little understanding of the niceties of conversation and no interest in edifying social intercourse, preferring instead to seek discourse with the unworthy and the unwashed over a congenial interchange with their betters."

"Dan!"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Go over to the hotel and burn E.B.'s fuckin' thesaurus." He shook his paper with irritation.

"Al…." E.B. bleated, offended.

"Just tell me what the fuck you saw and heard, E.B., and spare me the fuckin' flowery prose."

"Very well," he groused. "They ate in the dining room, talking more to the half-wit Richardson and the Abyssinian cook than me, the woman being more talkative than the man. She seemed fascinated by the half-wit's pagan antlers."

He sipped at his coffee. "If I may be allowed to share my impressions…" He paused until Al waved him on. "I doubt they're married, as their rutting seemed more in line with what one would expect from adulterers and fornicators than Christian married folk."

Al raised his eyebrow. "Plaster fall in the stew?"

"Merrick demanded I strike last night's supper off his tab," he said with a mournful face. "Over one little chunk and some dust falling in his carrots."

Al turned a page. "Go on."

"The man, if he suggested he is over fifty years of age, is a liar. He is younger than his appearance, I've no doubt, as evidenced by their degenerate coupling. He took his harlot once on the bed, and again on the floor, within the space of an hour!"

E.B. sounded a bit awestruck and more than a little bit envious.

A heavy sigh issued from the swarthy cutthroat.

"So, E.B., the information you bring me is that they would rather talk to the help than to you, and they like to fuck. Jesus Christ, let me open the safe to get adequate funds for your recompense for those helpful insights." Al rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering once again why he let E.B. draw breath.

"Since Adama's ridden out already and his woman is at the school, do I need to draw you plans for tossin' their room, or can you manage that on your own?" He silenced the mayor with a look and went back to his paper until Farnum had made his way back out of the door.

Finally folding the _Pioneer _closed, Al turned to the men at the bar.

"Dan. How'd the gunplay go?"

Dan left the bar to sit at Al's table, refreshing both their cups.

"Man's used to a heavier gun with a shorter barrel, seems like. Preferred the Remington over the Colt. After a few rounds to get the feel, he shot true enough. Not bad with a rifle, neither." He cleared his throat. "I, um…still had One-Ear's Remington and holster upstairs, so I told Adama he could use it for the time bein'."

He noted the question in Al's frown. "One-Ear, him that I...that passed while you was sick."

"And what, pray tell, was the cause of his passing?"

"Not keepin' his fuckin' mouth shut when I told him he was gettin' on my last nerve." Dan's voice held a hint of righteous indignation. Hell, he'd tried to warn One-Ear more than once to shut up.

"Anyways, about givin' Adama the Remington...hope that was okay."

He relaxed at Al's snort. "Ain't like I'm ever gonna use it. Go on."

"Well, I showed him the roads into camp, that we'd gone over in the map-reading. Lessee….he met Hawkeye, and I don't think he was too impressed with him. Went by Wu's, and damn if he didn't say hello" or some such in fuckin' Chinese…got a bow outa Wu, I can tell you that." Dan chuckled at the Chink boss's reaction.

"Plans for the day?"

"Adama said he wanted to reconnoiter the Spearfish Meadows as a stagin' ground, see if there's a logical place outa camp for armament storage."

A frown came over Al's face at a step he'd left uncontemplated, such steps being rare.

"Why would we want to store arms out of the camp? Don't that risk getting caught with our pants down, balls in the breeze?"

Dan shrugged.

"Said past a certain point, the risk of blowing ourselves up with too much armament outweighed the benefits of havin' it handy."

"So he's thinkin' more than guns and rifles being at hand."

Dan nodded thoughtfully.

"Now, he didn't say, and I ain't asked, but you want my opinion, he's had experience as a gunner or the like, cannon and such. Got an eye for that kinda damage."

Al spent a bare minute fantasizing about a cannon blast through the second floor of the hotel, landing a cannon ball in Hearst's gut, while he rubbed the stub of his chopped-off finger. The image brought his first smile of the day.

"You think he's goin' to reconnoiter and come straight back?"

"It were me, I'd be going back to where I stashed my gear, see if everything's still there."

Nodding, Al rose from the table. "Keep some distance. You get spotted, tell him it was at my direction."

Dan stood up, shoving the chair back under the table.

"And if he should run into any trouble out there, thieves or heathens or the like?"

Black eyebrows drew together over dark green eyes speckled with brown flecks that looked like old blood.

"Do you need me to tell you to cut the throats of whatever cocksucker interferes with our new associate?"

A ruddy flush came over Dan's stubbled cheeks. "No, sir."

His worn heels rang on the wooden floorboards as he turned and walked hard out of the saloon.

_Directin' me to do murder on Adama's behalf on his second goddamn day in town,_he thought. _He didn't even take to Adams that quick._

Dan was halfway to the livery before the hurt eased up on his feelings.

.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Laura barely gave herself time for her eyes to adjust to the change in light before her boots hit the stairs. She sighed in relief as she saw that she had dodged the strange bird of a hotelier-mayor and his bizarre questioning that he couched in some arcane dialect. The wild-haired man who used antlers to pray to a moose head on the wall seemed much more…_comfortable_to be around.

She glanced down at the lobby from the top of the stairs. E.B. Farnum was staring at her and trying to hide it by canting his face towards the floor. She wrinkled her nose unconsciously as she stepped into their room and locked the door behind her.

_Ugh._

There was a smell in the room that hadn't been present before. She slowly circled the room, not touching anything. She'd had her space violated enough in the past to tell when her place had been tossed. _That little_…she sighed. Nothing to be done now but inventory their things and check for anything dangerous left behind. And wait for Bill.

Half an hour later, she was satisfied that nothing had been taken or left. She poured a scant ounce of whiskey in a short tumbler of water and sat by the open window, hoping to see the first sight of Bill riding back into camp. She smiled at the thought of the Admiral on horseback…she wondered if he would be as confident about "it all coming back to him" from his school days after spending several hours in the saddle.

She watched the evening coming in the distance, the last rays of the sun washing over the street. Smiling, she scooted back behind the lace curtain a bit and settled in for some people-watching, one elbow resting on the windowsill. Laura sipped at her drink while she watched a leather-clad person—hard to tell if it were male or female—stumble along with an open bottle in hand, swearing at all and sundry.

She finally decided she was watching a woman as the foul stream of cursing came through the cracked window. Another woman, in one of the prettiest outfits she'd seen in a long time, all lace and satin and a fine silk top hat, buckle sparkling, pulled the drunken one towards a side street. The cursing stopped as one touched and the other batted hands away, then relented. She watched a silken arm drape around leather shoulders, and wondered what was keeping Bill.

Animals, chickens, men and a few women shared the muddy streets, the humans picking up their pace as they all made their way towards their homes or other comforts. She spotted Mr. Bullock's stiff striding figure and unconsciously pulled back a fraction further behind the curtain. Mrs. Bullock had continued to be kind and encouraging all day, letting Laura observe the children before gathering a reading circle together. She wasn't sure how many hundreds of years separated them, but the act of reading a story to a group of children hadn't changed, and it had brought her a sweet sense of peace.

When Martha spoke of her husband, though, there were the flashes of anger and sadness running through her tone that Laura had noticed before. She remembered a remark about the bank president, and wondered if that could have been the dark-haired elegant woman she had seen exiting the bank on her way home. A woman owning a bank didn't seem to fit with the history she had scanned last night, but Deadwood was a strange place, it seemed, even for its own time.

She stilled her glass as she watched Bullock stop dead in the street. She followed what she thought was his line of sight and saw the dark-haired woman again, her emerald-green dress dragging in the mud of the thoroughfare as she left the Gem saloon. The woman crossed the street, pointedly avoiding looking at Bullock, as far as Laura could tell. Bullock stood still for a heartbeat, then turned on his heel and walked with a slower stride towards his home. His shoulders seemed a bit slumped.

Laura looked away then, feeling voyeuristic, when movement at her level caught her eye. She hadn't been the only voyeur watching the two figures. Across the way, on a balcony festooned with a bedraggled banner identifying "The Gem Saloon" was Mr. Swearengen, china teacup in hand. His eyes seemed to follow the woman, then fell on Mr. Bullock, with what looked from Laura's angle to be a self-satisfied smile on his face.

She drew back even further when he turned his head toward the hotel. Although she was sure she was well behind the lace curtain, and the angle should have been wrong, she sensed that he could see her as clearly as when she'd been in his bar. She had almost convinced herself she was imagining his gaze when he lifted his cup towards her in a sardonic salute, smiled, and went back into his office. She absently worried the satin rope tie-backs on the velvet drapes as she became certain of who had commissioned the search of their room.

Finally, the evening coming into full twilight, the oil street lamps being lit the length of the town, she saw a broad-backed man, a bit more bow-legged than when he left her that morning, make his way across the thoroughfare to the hotel. She let some of the stiffness melt out of her spine as she listened for his steps. She ignored the pops of her bruised knees as she stood up and went to meet him at the door.

"Everything's still working. The readings show that something's being transmitted down that fits Galactica's signature, but as for distance…" He shrugged. "I don't know what they're picking up, but if they get any reading at all, they'll know it's us."

He slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, groaning. "I set new packet bursts for every six hours with our sitrep and coordinates. Now…" he gritted his teeth as he worked on his boots, "…we wait."

"So did your old riding skills come back as advertised?"

"They did." He hissed through his teeth as he straightened his legs out. "Which is not the same thing as the endurance I had as a twenty-year-old coming back."

"How was it, getting away by yourself? Any problems?" She sat in front of him, helping him with his boots, running her hands firmly over his tired feet.

"Pretty sure I wasn't by myself much. Couple of times I'm pretty sure I spotted Dan, the bear-looking guy with the long hair, remember? He stayed back, but I think he was in the vicinity the whole time."

She dropped his leather boot and reached for the other, frowning.

"Shouldn't you have aborted? What happens if they find the Raptor?"

He wiped his hand over his weary features. "Had to get the new sitrep packets out, make sure the equipment was working. He didn't interfere, and, Laura…there isn't a way of keeping it secret from _everybody_. Best we can hope for is that the only other people who know about it are more on our side than not. "

She began working on thigh muscles that had knotted up on the ride back, kneading deep and hard until she felt them start to loosen.

"That's a pretty thin guarantee."

He flopped back on the brass and iron bed. "Best I can do."

She propped on her elbows, beside him on her stomach. "So how was the rest of your day...your knees make it through okay?"

He chuckled. "Oh, yeah, that didn't help matters. The day…I went over some basic field maneuvers, some field tactics using terrain, and ammo storage. They've been storing enough gunpowder and other explosives in wooden barrels and buildings to blow up the whole frakkin' town."

Something poked her hip. She looked down.

"Where'd you get that?"

He grinned. "This? I was gonna show you this last night before I got distracted. Dan Dority again. Not a bad gun at all. Offered to pay him for it but he said the previous owner had no further need for weaponry." He kept his suspicions to himself as to the probable reason for that.

Laura edged over to his side to rest her face on his shoulder as she told him of her suspicions and findings. He smelled of sweat, both horse and man, and the faint dry sweetness of leather. She nosed deeper into his shirt, enjoying this scent, so different from shipboard metal and air scrubbers.

"You don't seem concerned about that freak tossing our room."

He shrugged. "I'll ask Swearengen about it. I'd be surprised, skittish as he is, if Farnum searched us on his own. More likely he was acting as Swearengen's agent."

She cocked her head as he gently dislodged her, getting up to fetch the bottle and two glasses.

"Don't you have some objection?"

He poured for them both, looked into the rust-colored liquid and then back at her eyes.

"I'd have done the same thing, if the situation was reversed." He drank, welcoming the burn.

Laura realized he was right, and something about that thought made her uneasy. She tried to put it out of her mind as she began thinking about dinner.


	10. Chapter 10

**Upstairs, the Gem Saloon, Al Swearengen's office**

Dan Dority slumped comfortably in the wooden office chair, ankle propped on his knee, as he searched for the right words.

"I'd say it was somewheres between a stagecoach and a boxcar, as far as size."

Al nodded. "Go on."

"As for shape…." He pushed the brim of his hat back and sighed. "A lot of it was covered up in brush and scrub. Couldn't rightly see the whole of it. But there was kind of a trap door-looking thing, that Adama hoisted up and went through to get into the contraption."

"How long was he inside?"

"I'd say about a couple of hours. Oh, and it did have a roundish window set in it. I could see him fiddling with something, but I couldn't see enough to tell what the fuck he was doin'. A couple times, looked like he was talkin' to hisself." Dan shifted under his boss's steady gaze. "You know, like men of a…a certain maturity find it helpful to do."

Al glanced over his shoulder at the cupboard.

"Well, that seems natural enough, a man with secrets weighin' on him, needin' to talk things through with that which cannot talk back and cloud his thoughts with fuckin' doubts and judgments."

"Uh…yeah, boss, such was my thinkin', too, far as that goes. Completely natural."

He willed his eyes away from the cupboard. He fancied he could feel black eyes staring at him through the doors, through the walls of the wooden box, if the thing still even had eyes in its head.

"He take anything from the…contraption?"

"Nope. Shut the door and clambered back up on Nelly, headed back here."

Al grabbed a toothpick from his desk and sauntered over to the balcony doors. He absently chewed as he watched the hotel.

"Well, E.B. ain't fled his front desk in horror, so it don't look like Adama and his lady are shakin' the rafters yet. Go over there and tell him I want to see him." He worried at the toothpick with his front teeth.

"And tell him to bring her. Somethin' strange about that woman. I've a mind to observe her and him together, see can I discern whether it's anything that might augment or hinder my understanding of the man."

Dan nodded as he rose and stretched.

"Oh, and Dan?"

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

"In as genteel a way as you can put it, get across to Adama that his schoolteacher mistress, or whatever the fuck she is, needs to attire herself like a decent fuckin' woman when she's out and about. I could see her titties bounce clear from my balcony when she walked back from the school. Not sayin' it wasn't something of a treat to the eyes, but what draws attention to _her,_ will get the hoopleheads ruminatin' on him that's fuckin' her. I doubt he'd welcome that."

Dan sighed. Genteel talk was not his forte. "I'll see what I can do, boss."

Dan met Richardson on the stairs of the Grand Central, tray of dirty dishes in his gnarled hands.

"The Adamas in?"

Richardson seemed to have to think on that harder than most, but finally drawled a slow "yes" while Dan impatiently fingered the knife sheath on his belt.

"Well, are they decent? For me to go on up?"

"Been decent to me."

"Jesus, you idjit, that ain't what I meant. They got their clothes on, not layin' up on each other or the like?"

"Oh. They're just sittin' there, leaving others in peace." He looked down at Dan's big buck knife. "I like folks like that."

_Old fool's gibberish gets worse every day_, Dan thought as he went to their door.

He was already inside, engaged in a quiet conversation with Bill, when Richardson raised his pocket-sized antlers to the moose head in supplication for the couple's well-being.

************

Laura had her schoolteacher persona firmly in place as Bill explained Dan's visit.

"Go over that last part one more time."

Bill rolled his eyes. "I'm not even going to try to repeat Dan's speech verbatim, but the gist of it is that Swearengen wants to meet with us, and…"

"And because he's been staring at my breasts when I pass by, I'm supposed to harness myself into that godsdamned thing before I set foot in his frakking _whorehouse_?"

He laid a conciliatory arm over her shoulders. "He's got a point, Laura. You do draw the eye like that, looking a bit more…lush than the other townswomen. And we don't need the extra attention."

She picked up the obnoxious corset, laces dangling as she turned it this way and that. She idly wished she'd worn her more structured bra on their flight, but it had looked too stiff under the flowing red and gray ensemble he liked so much. _If she'd known_….She shook her head. She'd been saying that too much lately. She untied the laces and started pulling one through the grommets.

"Uh, Laura…that's not how it works. " He took it out of her hands, laying it on the bed as he moved behind her to unbutton her dress. "First, you need to be down to your underclothes."

"I knew that." She puffed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "I was just getting it undone."

He had gotten better with the tiny buttons. In no time, she stood before him in her chemise, petticoat, and a pissed-off attitude. Adopting his best instructional, no-nonsense tone, he continued.

"Now, first, we're gonna unhook these fasteners in front."

"Knock yourself out, Admiral."

He stoically undid each hook and eye until the beige corset lay opened on the bed.

"Now, this goes around you, like so." He stood behind her rigid figure and pulled the two sides together, wrapping his arms around her. "Now, start hooking."

"_Excuse_ me?"

He put his lips to the sensitive spot behind her ear. "You know that's not what I meant. Help me get these things fastened."

Grumbling, she started at the top of the busk, working her way down to his fingers, now level with her waist.

"Okay, now adjust it over your breasts, to where it's...not as uncomfortable."

She shifted and pulled, but it didn't come up terribly far, not more than an inch past her nipples. The bottom skimmed over her hips, covering her stomach.

"Feels kind of loose."

She felt him fumbling with the laces in the back.

"Not for long."

He slowly began pulling the cream-colored laces snug, one row after another.

"How long does this take?"

"Not long. Hold on to the bedrail if you're getting tired of standing." He methodically tugged.

Laura raised an eyebrow as she looked over her shoulder, hands now firm on the iron bedrail.

"How is it that you know so much about how these things work?"

His fingers paused for a moment, then went back to the laces.

"Couple times I met with Swearengen, he couldn't see me right away. Had to wait by the girls' room. They're not big on shutting the door."

She started to turn but he nudged her shoulder back into place.

"I bet _that_ was fun."

He reached the middle of the corset and pulled firmly on the ends of the upper laces.

"Tell me if that gets too tight.

"Yeah, it was lots of 'fun'. Couple were comparing needle tracks and wondering if the infection would clear up. One had a rash on her privates that itched like crazy. One was crying because she 'let a guy ass-fuck her when he'd only paid for pussy' and she was scared to tell Al."

He realized he was pulling a bit too firmly, although she didn't say a word.

"It wasn't like the movies, Laura. It sure wasn't anything to get excited about. But while I was there, a couple girls were getting ready for work and helped each other into corsets like these. I figured at least one of us should know how it worked."

She sighed. "You can a pull a little tighter."

It suddenly seemed like a petty thing to complain about, having to wear an uncomfortable garment for a couple of weeks or so…she hoped.

Bill carefully tied off the upper laces and made quick work of adjusting the lower ones. Laura realized the corset was starting to mold to her body, supporting and lifting her breasts, keeping them immobile. Her back had gotten even straighter than her usual posture, and felt gently braced. As he finished tying the lower laces, she realized her waist had been pulled in enough to be a bit noticeably smaller, at least while in this state of undress.

"How is it?" he asked, with a worried look.

"Well, I won't be picking any socks up off the floor like this, but…it's manageable."

He finally grinned, relaxing a bit.

"That's a nice look for you, Madame President. Might need to take this one back with us."

She slipped into her blouse and skirt, and he made his way back up the button row, kissing the back of her neck at the end.


	11. Chapter 11

Al kept to the shadows of the balcony overlooking the bustling thoroughfare. The strange couple weaved between mules and miners, the redhead holding her skirts above the muck. He smiled as he noticed the changes in Mrs. Adama's posture. Her lush curves were more constrained and she didn't look happy. He watched her jerk at Adama's arm to slow his pace towards the Gem, her lips barely moving as she muttered something too low to be heard. Al drained his teacup and was glad he hadn't been the one to personally convince that woman to harness herself into a corset. He was pretty sure his first impression had been accurate. She was clearly a handful.

He set the cup aside and walked back into his office. He swore as he realized his steps, apparently of their own accord, still avoided the worn area in the middle of the floor. When the lights burned low, he sometimes imagined he could still see the faded bloodstains; they were there, mocking, bleeding up from under the wood as soon as the soapy water dried.

Deliberately retracing his steps, he trod over the floorboards, now feathery in spots from repeated scrubbings on sleepless nights. Jewel had heard his grumbling once as he knelt with the brush and bucket at two in the morning. After she dodged the brush he threw at her head, she never volunteered again to help with this particular task.

As he sunk into his chair, he pondered the moodiness of the Gem's inhabitants this evening. Al knew he wasn't the only one remembering the grim choices of the previous year. In a way, he envied the Adamas being strangers to Deadwood, at least tonight. Wherever they were from, he doubted their own kind looked at them and saw monsters. He shrugged and straightened the papers on his desk, waiting for the knock.

Laura paused at the top of the steps. Between the snug fit of her corset and the fog of liquor fumes, smoke and sweat hanging thick in the upstairs air, her breathing had become so shallow she felt light-headed. As other, muskier scents wafted her way, she thought it might be a blessing that she couldn't breathe too deep.

The Gem was packed tight with rowdy miners and whores catcalling and singing off-key while the piano player tried to keep up. Bill had kept a protective arm around her waist as they cut through the crowd. She wondered if he could feel the outlines of the metal stays under her clothes. Her question was answered when he ran his fingers over the lacings at her back, almost strumming them like she was a stringed instrument.

"You okay?" His low rumble at her ear blocked out the confused racket below them.

She braced a hand on the banister and sucked down a deeper breath, her ribs pushing against metal. "I'm fine. I just needed to catch my breath."

She glanced at Dan Dority, poised with his fist raised at Al Swearengen's door. He tilted his head in a _Hurry up!_ motion. She shrugged at Bill as she murmured, "I think I'm ready. Let's go." She hated to admit it, but she was still unsettled from finding signs that their room had been searched. Hearing Bill's account of being followed had added to that feeling.

Dan had knocked hard and gotten a muffled "_Yeah!"_ from inside by the time they reached the door, Laura's fingers tight on Bill's arm.

_Whatever else he might be_, Laura thought, _Swearengen was certainly a born politician._ After a flurry of thanks, cordial greetings, and insisting that they call him "Al," he had offered her a seat on a padded leather settee to his right, leaving Bill the wooden chair in front of his desk. She realized the probable purpose was to keep Bill in Al's direct line of sight and her out of the way. She wondered if he noticed she now had an unobstructed view of both men.

She smiled to herself. After he had examined her from head to toe, with considerable lingering over her breasts, his eyes had turned indifferent. It was almost clinical; he wasn't admiring her body, she realized, as much as he was checking to see if his instructions had been followed. As he turned his full attention to Bill, she thought that it was probably good, even enviable in this place, to be ignored by this man.

Swearengen leaned back in his chair and nodded at her. "You're looking well, Mrs. Adama. I trust your sojourn in camp has been bearable thus far?"

Before she could speak, Bill replied for her, "She's fine. Your man said you wanted to meet with us. We're here."

Laura couldn't help but think of two alpha dogs suddenly shoved into the same pen. She watched the two men bristle for a second before standing down to an alert, watchful calm. She made herself relax as far as the corset would allow and settled into her seat to see what would happen next.

Swearengen opened his bottom desk drawer, pulling out a bottle and two glasses. He motioned towards Laura, eyebrow quirked up in question. At Bill's nod, he found a third glass.

"You have a testy tone, Adama. Something the matter?" He poured out three shots and set the bottle aside.

Bill reached for his drink with a steady hand. "You had me followed today. You had someone, probably Farnum, search our rooms."

"Right on both counts." Al downed his shot, putting the empty glass down with a thud. "How big of a problem is that for you?"

Bill turned towards Laura with a long solemn look, then turned back to Al. "I—_we_ can live with it, once. More than that, it becomes unacceptable."

He drank as Al nodded his understanding.

"You're new here, to the camp and the Hills. Not castin' aspersions on your ability to protect yourself, but I thought it prudent to have Dan keep you under a watchful eye."

His genial smile faded at Bill's raised eyebrow. "And I wanted to know for myself how much truth was in your story of wagons and runaway horses."

"What was your conclusion?" Bill's measured tone was casual, but Laura could see the muscles in his forearms tensing as he waited for an answer. Al poured more whiskey.

"I conclude that you've got some kind of traveling coach the likes of which my man had never seen. He sounded like a Sioux tryin' to describe the sight of his first train, but he did so well enough for me to believe you're tellin' the truth, as far as being here by misfortune rather than design. As to the particulars"—he shrugged—"the reports of the day leave me reassured, my most pressing concerns having been addressed and nullified."

Laura chewed on that statement. If their Raptor had been seen, it apparently had been dismissed as not being a threat or anything worth stealing. _So far, so good_.

Al smoothed his moustache, looking past both of them for a few seconds before continuing.

"It's nothin' to me, other than simple curiosity, where you hail from, whether it's Cincinnati or the center of the Earth, long as I don't perceive either of you as a threat to my interests. So far, that's the pew you're sittin' in." He turned up his glass and emptied it. "That situation comes to any meaningful change, I might be motivated to further inquiry. Satisfied as I am right now that you aren't fuckin' Pinkerton agents, nor in George fuckin' Hearst's employ, nor otherwise pose a potential threat to my balls, I'm inclined to leave well enough alone."

He refilled the emptied glasses again.

"Mrs. Adama, from what I can tell, you're adequately earnin' your teacher's wages. I hear the children like you and that Mrs. Bullock likes you as well." He gave a half-smirk as he looked towards the louvered doors separating his office from what seemed to be his bedroom. "Fuckin' Bullock that's her husband don't seem too friendly towards you, but these days I'm hard-pressed to find anyone he looks on with any kindness. And I note that you and your man took my request for a nod to propriety to heart, as far as the fuckin' corset."

He frowned at Laura's untouched glass. "Somethin' wrong with your drink? I can get Jewel to brew up some tea, but it'll stretch this out for an extra hour, time she makes her way up here with that gimp leg."

"No, it's…this is fine." She took a sip, realized it was smoother than what they kept in their rooms, and sipped deeper. Lighter than the Tauron liquor Bill preferred, it had a smoky-sweet aftertaste and a soothing warmth. She licked the last traces off her lips, savoring the flavor, and felt herself blush as Al raised an eyebrow at Bill.

"Your woman—pardon me, your _wife—_seems to enjoy my special stock. Remind me before you go, and I'll send some of that over."

She watched Bill's face turn stony. A hint of frost in her voice, Laura said, "That won't be necessary. We've got what we need in our rooms."

Expression neutral again, Al nodded. "All right. Adama, time to earn _your_ pay. What do I need to know?"

Laura had seen Bill move into this posture before, when he had to take military observations and translate them into a sit-rep that civilians could understand. She supposed she did the same thing when she needed to explain political considerations to an impatient Admiral: open body language, serious expression, honest eyes. She looked over at Al and recognized his posture as well: serious, not unfriendly, ready to hear whatever Bill had to say. She'd taken on that role plenty of times during the first few months after the attacks.

_Well, at least we all know how to play our parts,_ she mused, as she sipped her whiskey again.

Swearengen sat still as stone, eyes hooded, as Bill went down his mental list.

"You and the Chinese boss, Wu, are tight."

"Yeah. We're fuckin' _hang dai,"_he said, crossing his fingers.

"Does he have men that report to him, work under him, like you have?"

Swearengen turned thoughtful. "I'm thinkin' that he must, as I've no doubt he keeps as much of a rein on his area of things as I do mine. What's your point?"

"If you had to act together again, which of his men would meet with yours to work out deployment and strategy?"

Swearengen cocked his head. "Always been mostly just me and fuckin' Wu, working that shit out on our own. Usually right up here, him sittin' where you are now, scribblin' stick figures with charcoal on an endless fucking flow of paper, me play-actin' my interpretation to ensure I take his meaning." He stood and poured liquor again, frowning at the bottle's lowered level. "Never gave much thought to them that are workin' for us comin' together on their fuckin' own. I don't know where you're from"—his pointed glance shifted from Bill to Laura and back—"but that much minglin'…it might be a hard sell to my boys."

"Maybe. But when you were preparing for an attack, he had close to a hundred and fifty men armed and ready, to your seventeen." Bill leaned forward as he made his point. "Your team and his team need to be able to work together or you won't have a militia. You'll have a couple of armed mobs and chaos." His deep blue eyes turned icy as his lips tightened to a thin line. "That won't end well."

Laura sighed and set her empty glass on the corner of the desk, holding her hand over the top when Al offered her another pour. She wished she had some index cards to rip up or a pencil to snap as she gathered her breath, mentally preparing her opening statement.

"Gentlemen, may I make a suggestion?" She smiled at them both, watching Bill for signs that she was overstepping. Taking his cautious nod as encouragement, she began.

"In my experience, expecting two different groups to immediately work together because they've been ordered to is naïve." She rose to her feet, gathering more air into her constrained lungs as she continued. "If there was a more natural way to integrate the different groups, you'd have a better chance of success." She began pacing, ignoring the curious looks from the men.

"There's talk from Mrs. Bullock of plans for a town library. If the needs of the Chinese population were to be taken into consideration—" Her words ground to a halt as Al shook his head.

"Not meaning to disregard your thoughts, Mrs. Adama, but I expect they've got whatever they think they need in that regard."

She nodded agreeably like the politician she was as she readied her rebuttal. "But you don't know that for sure, do you? What if the town offered space in the school building to start a small library until a real town library is built? Maybe obtain some educational writings in their language?"

Laura's smile was tinged with a touch of wistful imagining, thinking of library shelves packed with books and scrolls. "You'd be surprised at how literature can encourage people to overcome their differences." She turned so Al couldn't see the wink she aimed at Bill, one corner of her mouth turning up as she watched the slow flush rise from under his chambray collar and wash over his neck. She suspected she might pay for that sly reference later, but at least he had relaxed as she explained her idea, his mouth losing its tightness as he nodded in support.

Al looked thoughtful as he grabbed a toothpick off his desk and started to chew on one end. He looked at both of them in turn, expression unreadable as he narrowed his dark green eyes.

"I'd hear your thoughts on this, Adama," he said.

Bill met his look, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he turned the idea over in his head. "It's a good strategy. Alliances formed in peacetime have a chance to grow. People find out they can trust each other. Things get…crazy, trying to do that under fire. People make mistakes." He looked down at his hands fisted in his lap. "People die."

Laura had crossed the room while they talked, gazing out over the town through the balcony's French doors. The oil torches along the street jumped and guttered in the wind. Standing there, the pressure off her ribs, she could breathe deeper and wondered where the scent of oranges and fresh wood came from, brushed with a touch of musk…_and sex_. She smiled at her rippling reflection in the wavy glass panes. Not unexpected in a whorehouse, she mused, although this seemed fresher than the pungent layers of old smells downstairs.

Al's gruff baritone interrupted her thoughts. "Mrs. Adama, would you be willing to broach the subject of the school with Mrs. Bullock? I'd not go further along this line of thought without her endorsement."

She paused before turning around, surprised at the deference in his voice. The thought crossed her mind that Adar could have learned a thing or two about respecting teachers' autonomy from the rough-edged town boss. She glanced at Bill, waiting on his slight nod before agreeing.

"Done, then." Al thumped a gavel-like fist down on his desk before turning back to Bill. "What else?"

"I talked to Hawkeye like you asked. You've got some problems there." Bill's impassive gaze didn't waver at Al's sudden dark glower.

Laura moved to stand behind Bill's chair, one hand on the wooden back. She was familiar with the look Al wore. She'd seen it on Bill; she'd seen it in her own mirror. It was time to measure how much of a critical risk someone posed to the group. She closed her eyes for a second. It had felt good to be free from discussing life and death decisions for a while. She wished for Bill's sake it could have lasted a little longer.


	12. Chapter 12

The light from the lamp illuminated the empty bottle, the thick glass distorting the flame behind it. A few last drops shimmered at the bottom.

"Looks like it's time for another." Al's chair creaked as he rose to his feet to call for more whiskey. Laura's face was expressionless as she glanced at the bottle and then looked down at Adama, her hand stiffening on his shoulder. _She don't like the idea of him drinkin' more, but she won't tell him so in front of an outsider._He nodded in approval.

"Or…mind if I call for a pot of coffee? I've got a long fuckin' night ahead of me, and my mind may need its full clarity."

He watched Adama's eyes lose their chill. "A pot of real coffee sounds good." Behind him, Al saw Laura's shoulders relax as well.

He chuckled as he went to the door. "Real" coffee? Palate still scarred from too much ersatz coffee during the war, Adama?"

That got a rueful grin. "You'd be surprised what people try to turn into coffee when supplies run out." Adama turned to look up at Laura, shared memories in their eyes. His chin brushed her hand as she touched his jawline with her forefinger in a discreet caress. He leaned back, his head almost touching her stomach. He seemed to welcome the respite before getting back to business.

Al stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned towards the couple again. Something about that last statement rang out of tune. He scrutinized Adama, eyebrow raised. "A man could wonder anew where people had come from, that they talk about wartime deprivations with such a tone of recent memory."

Adama's smile faded. "Some memories stick with you longer than others."

"Plenty enough truth in that." Al looked at him a long moment before turning the knob. "If you'll excuse me..." Stepping into the hallway, he left the door ajar behind him.

He called for Johnny from the hallway, then addressed Adama over his shoulder. "As we both have considerable distaste for others pryin' into that which ain't theirs, I'll be leavin' the door open and you'll refrain from strayin' too far from your chair." He moved away from the open door and called for Johnny again.

Dan leaned against the upstairs railing, stoic as he listened to Al's grumbling. "What do you mean, 'Johnny ain't here'? Where the fuck is he?"

"I told you, boss, he's been outta sorts all day, thinkin' on Jen. Couple hours ago, he said he was goin' up on Boot Hill, set some flowers at her grave to pay his respects, it bein' the anniversary of her"—he looked away—"her passing."

_Jesus fuckin' Christ! We'll have to install a boardwalk between here and the cemetery if this bullshit catches on. Might as well throw flowers into Wu's pigpen while we're at it, maybe weave a garland for the fuckin' sled._He wondered briefly if Hearst had fed his chopped-off finger to the pigs…wouldn't have surprised him, though, if the cocksucker had kept it as a souvenir.

Al casually studied his left hand, rubbing the stump and feeling a fingertip that hadn't been there for over a year. He finally looked up with flat eyes. "I'd not harm a hair on the head of any one of you boys without good cause, but Dan, you _will_ tell me if I have a problem in Johnny."

Dan took off his hat to rake his fingers through his long hair and then set it on his head again, brim level. "Naw, I'm thinkin' Johnny's just tryin' to ease the door shut on Jen's memory." His tone turned conspiratory. "He's lookin' to take up with the new gal, come in from Nebraska."

"Well, God bless youth and stiff pricks, then. And about fuckin' time." He felt some of the tension leave his neck at the thought of Johnny finally moving on. "Jewel!" Al called below as the crippled cook bent to clear off a table. "Put on a pot of coffee and send it up by someone with two good legs when it's ready, hmm?"

"Fuck you, Al." Jewel rolled her eyes as she turned towards the kitchen.

_Thank God somebody was acting normal tonight_. He turned back to Dan with a sigh. "Anyways, then, since Johnny's made himself scarce, I want you to escort Mrs. Adama back to the hotel. Me and her man have some more talkin' to do."

"Sure." Dan leaned closer, eye on the open office door as he whispered. "You get what you needed from talkin' to him and her together?"

"Oh,_fuck_ yeah. They've been workin' at something together for a long time, got a whole language of winks and nods between 'em goin' in both directions. Looks like they've been equal partners in whatever they've been up to." Al shot a glance at the couple talking quietly in front of his desk. She was staring a hole through the stack of books on the desk's corner but seemed to be keeping her hands to herself.

"And somethin' else," he continued. "Last war they were in wasn't any fifteen years ago. Adama's seen battle a hell of a lot more recent. Maybe Mexico…something more than skirmishes with the heathens."

"Huh. I woulda guessed they maybe spent some time runnin' riverboat cons or the like." Dan leaned back to catch a glimpse of the pair.

Al shook his head. "She's not the type. Look at her, Dan. If you saw her by a craps table, would you walk up for a chat, lookin' for flattery and an invitation to put your hand under her skirts if you laid enough money on the felt?"

Alarm spread over the big man's face. "_Hell_, no. Not without expectin' either her or him to try and gut me. They both kinda got that look about 'em."

"Well, mind your manners on the walk to the hotel, Dan. I ain't been so bold as to search her, and she reminds me of certain others we know who have a fondness for those little ladies' guns."

Al walked back into the office, Dan trailing a step behind. The expression on Adama's face was bordering on hostile, and his woman's eyes were looking on the hollow side. Al noticed she'd kept to her post, standing behind Adama's chair. He moved around her to get to his side of the desk, pausing to say, "You can borrow one if you like," as he pointed at the small stack of books. She fingered the blue cloth cover of a worn copy of _Sonnets from the Portuguese,_by Elizabeth Barrett Browning_,_curiosity in her eyes, before pulling back.

"Thank you for the offer. Perhaps another time." She smiled as she lightly kneaded Adama's shoulder. Al shrugged as he resumed his seat. "Not one for poetry myself, but that came recommended by a refined lady of my acquaintance." He gave Laura a self-deprecating grin. "Hard as it may be to imagine that a woman of quality would be in my circle." He turned his attention back to Adama, ignoring Dan's muffled snort.

"It's getting late and your lady looks past ready to loosen her laces and relax. I'll have Dan walk her back to the hotel while you speak your piece on Hawkeye and other topics of interest."

Adama looked Dan up and down, paying close attention to his knife in its sheath. His eyes were icy and narrowed as he rose, standing close to Laura's side. "I heard you calling for Johnny for that. Why'd you switch to Dan?"

_Suspicious cocksucker_. Al sighed and folded his arms on the desk. "It seems Johnny's indisposed, overcome by grief and in need of weeping over the grave of one whore before movin' on to the next." He closed his eyes for a second. He supposed that sounded callous even for him.

"Pardon the crassness of my tone, Mrs. Adama. What I mean to say is that a girl he was sweet on was killed a year ago today, having to do with the type of misfortune for which I now hire your husband to help us avoid in the future." He watched sympathy wash over their faces, and for a moment he was tempted to accept it. He'd had little enough sympathy directed towards him since that night. He got the feeling they might recognize the inevitability of sacrifice and hard choices from perhaps having walked similar roads in their past. Adama frowned, his hands clasped in front of him, the picture of a leader's resignation to unavoidable loss. The schoolteacher's face had lost some of the sternness that had been there, compassion taking its place.

Their reactions made him feel like they were seeing something in him that he preferred to keep to himself. He found their careful regard unsettling. He glanced down at the floor, feeling the aftermath of that night again. The sharp memory of hot blood and cheap perfume distracted him, making him miss Mrs. Adama's quiet question at first.

He frowned. "Sorry…what was that again?"

She had a touch of kindness around her eyes. "I asked what happened…the young woman who died?"

Al got to his feet, feeling a strong and angry need to deflect this unwarranted compassion. " 'What happened' is that I called her into my office after she fucked her last customer, shut the door, and cut her throat about two feet from where you stand." His eyes felt hot as he added, "The bloodstain spread to where the edge of your skirt is now." He nodded towards Laura's feet as she turned to look at the brush-worn spots on the floor, turning back to him with cooler eyes.

Unwanted sympathy dealt with, Al strode to the door and nodded to Dan. He heard Adama talking to his wife in the background, giving quiet instructions about locking their door and putting a lamp in the window when she was safely back.

"I'll be there in an hour or so. I don't think this'll take long." Adama's voice sounded annoyingly confident, too calm for Al's liking. He was starting to resent what he considered an excess of composure in the both of them. There were still remnants of sympathy around the wife's eyes that he found especially disconcerting.

He grabbed Dan's arm on his way out the door. "Tell whoever's bringin' up the coffee to bring up another fuckin' bottle." He gave Mrs. Adama a direct look as he spoke and was gratified to see all kindness leave her eyes. He wondered if her man was a mean drunk, free with his hands when liquored up. He shrugged. He'd find out from E.B. soon enough if that were the case. She looked like she could handle herself, if it came to that.

As the door shut, he heard Adama sit back down, chair legs scraping on the floor.

"I thought we were finished with drinking for the night."

Al turned and ran a hand over his face, feeling like he'd aged ten years since breakfast. "I decided clarity was fuckin' overrated."

Laura's boot heels came down hard on the steps, striking an angry tattoo on the wood. She brushed past a man on the landing who was busy groping a young woman under her stained cotton blouse. She stood a few steps above the crowd as she waited for Dan to return from a last-minute summons from his boss. There was something pitiful now about the red-faced card players, the blank-eyed women, the drunken men who were trying to force some happiness into their lives.

In the couple of hours she had been in Swearengen's office, either her mood or the crowd's had changed for the worse. She was hit with a sudden longing for artificially clean-scrubbed air, recycled water, and to be perfectly honest, for the respect she had been shown as President Roslin. Dan returned to her side, but he was no substitute for her security detail, she grumbled to herself as another drunk twirled a giggling prostitute into her path. Laura sidestepped in time, moving through the crowd as Dan tried to keep a step ahead of her, shoving dawdlers out of their way.

She looked down, her lips turning up in a half-smirk. Dan was keeping one hand hovering an inch or so from her waist, looking like he wanted to physically guide her to the front door but reluctant to actually touch her body. She got a twinge of feeling like the President again, and brief as it was, it still felt good.

Some of the strangeness of this town started to recede as they stepped through the front doors of the Gem onto the wooden sidewalk. The crowds had thinned now in the late evening, and there was a kind of harmony in their movement. Dusty men with packs slung over their shoulders walked to the tents grouped between the back streets and the beginning of the nearest tree line. The cook-shops had shut down for the night, fires out and pots neatly stacked under rough board counters. Across the street and up a block, women in limp faded lace leaned against the open doorframe of the Bella Union, smoking and beckoning to the men walking by.

"Uh, ma'am? Mr. Swearengen wanted me to give you this." Firelight from the torches danced over the big man's face, creating shadows around his eyes and mouth. There was something animalistic about him…he really was almost bearlike, as Bill had pointed out. Her eyes lingered on the ivory handle of the knife at his belt before noticing the slim book he held in his hand.

"Is that the book from his desk? The one I told him I did _not_ want to borrow tonight?"

Dan pushed it into her hand. "He said to tell you that you ain't borrowin' it, he's lendin' it."

Laura looked at the cover again as they waited for a wagon team to pass. "Your boss doesn't like to hear 'no,' does he?"

" No' ain't a word he hears a whole lot."

She tucked the book under her arm. "Is that what happened to the girl in his office, Mr. Dority? Did she tell him no when she should have kept quiet?"

"It wasn't…it wasn't like that," he sighed, walking her out into the rutted street. "It wasn't nothing personal. Things just started happening that got past his control, stuck him in a place where there wasn't no good answers." He looked at her from the corner of his eye. "The fact that he's willin' to overlook some mighty strange things about your husband and you…if you knew him, you'd know to take that as a sign of how much he don't ever want to be in that position again."

Mud sucked at her boots as she stepped up on the wooden sidewalk in front of the Grand Central Hotel. "And you think my husband can help him avoid that kind of situation in the future?" She tipped her head up and was surprised by the glaze of tears in the man's eyes.

"Ma'am, I don't know if talkin' about militia tactics is gonna help Al or not. Might be the best thing to come out of this is for Al to hear he ain't the only one that's ever been in charge when things went to shit and hard decisions had to get made."

She mustered a thin smile. "Well, Mr. Swearengen will certainly hear he's not alone in that. He may even end that discussion feeling he got off lightly." She turned away from his confused look and entered the hotel. She suspected Dan had glared at E. B. Farnum behind her back. Either that, or guilt from the search, made the little man scuttle into his back office when they came inside. She nodded her thanks to Dan for his escort and headed up the stairs.

Richardson stood in front of the stuffed moose head, extending his pair of small antlers like an offering and whispering under his breath with a prayer-like cadence. He reminded her of an elderly priest she'd known on Caprica at one of the less moneyed temples, she thought as she dug her key out of her pocket.

Locking the door behind her, she lit the lamp nearest the window, watching the outlines of the two men in the office across the street. She no longer felt like she had any idea of the true reason the town boss was seeking Bill's counsel, and wondered if Swearengen himself knew what he was really looking to get out of this.

She turned back to the book in her hands. '_Sonnets from the Portuguese,'_she mused. _Wonder if this is any good for reading out loud?_She reached under her blouse to unfasten a few of the hooks on the corset and finally drew a decent deep breath.

Settling into the chair by the lamp, she began to read, the book falling open to a well-worn page:_'__When we met first and loved, I did not build / Upon the event with marble…'_ She looked at the scene across the street again, Bill's familiar profile outlined by the lamplight. She wondered briefly if there was any poetry being written in the Fleet these days, then turned back to her reading.


	13. Chapter 13

Bill leaned forward in his chair, stretching the muscles of his lower back and wishing he had left with Laura. Her heels had rung hard against the stairs after Al had called for more whiskey. He'd thought about going after her, telling her he'd keep the liquor under control…but the thought of either him or Laura looking vulnerable here still chilled his blood.

Al poured coffee for them both, tipping the whiskey bottle over his own cup. He rubbed his eyes and started going over what Bill had told him.

"So, you're sayin' that were I to follow my instincts and cut the degenerate Hawkeye's throat, I remove one problem and gain problems innumerable in driving his friend, Adams, away."

That's how I see it," Bill had said with a nod. "When you have a weak link and removing it would do more damage, you reinforce it, shift some load off of it. Find something he can do…or figure out if getting rid of the weak link is worth losing a good man in the bargain." He'd seen Silas Adams as an intelligent man with good instincts when he met him, and Laura's description after Adams had escorted her to the schoolhouse and back had reinforced his impression. The man's loyalty to his disreputable friend, Hawkeye in the face of Al's wrath spoke volumes about Adams's character.

Bill's eyes had moved away from Al then, as he saw a dingy apartment in his mind's eye and wondered if he would have made it through the Fleet knowing he'd abandoned Saul to his demons. He knew one thing for certain…he would've lost the Bill Adama he was today. His lips twisted in a cynical smirk as he realized the Fleet had bought his own soul when they gave Saul another chance, and Bill had been more than willing to make that deal. Finding a way to repurpose Hawkeye would gain Adams's gratitude, tie him to Swearengen for the long haul. He hoped Adams could live with the choices being made tonight.

"I'd sooner hire on Hawkeye to shoo flies off whores than see Adams go elsewhere. Dan's my best man with a knife—though Adams is no slouch in that department—but Adams has the better head for strategy." Al's coffee cooled in his cup as he spoke.

The hostility that had smoldered around Al before Laura left had ebbed, leaving an aging, weary man who seemed tired of bloodshed, quietly relieved that Bill had found him less deadly options. He'd focused on the dregs of his coffee as Bill had gone to the windows, watchful.

Bill had tensed when Dan and Laura disappeared into the darkened entrance of the Grand Central Hotel. He hadn't relaxed until he saw the lamp being lit in front of their window, casting Laura's shadow into relief. He thought he saw the curtains move, and smiled at the thought of her looking back towards him. He had turned and taken his seat again, pouring a cup of coffee for himself, holding his hand over his cup at Al's offer of the bottle. The saloon-keeper had shrugged and kept up his rhetoric, looking past Bill to empty spaces in the room. His eyes flicked over the faded wood where a bloodstain had been. He could spare a little more time, Bill thought. The dark corners seemed to grow as he envisioned Picon priests hearing confessions.

Al sniffed hard, faint sneer on his face. "Anniversaries bring up memories probably better left alone, but it seems to be the way we're made…maybe Mother Nature's way of knocking us with a two-by-four once in a while so we don't forget our mistakes.

"Generally, I don't look back…I see what I have to do, do it, and go on. Worrying over decisions made and carried out…other men doing that has made me the success that I am, as they try to drown out their worryin' with whores, whiskey and cards.

"But the events of last year…I'll confess to lookin' back on those in order to plan for the future. Now, I'm guessing as a man of the Navy or whatever the fuck you really are, you've braced yourself to be hit by superior forces at some point…and ain't that a peculiar feelin'? Can't lie down and quit, but knowin' that those determined to grind you under their heel can just keep their forces comin' at you…you kill a few, a few plus more get hired the next day. Fuckin' hopeless feeling, that is."

Al grabbed a toothpick off his desk and chewed viciously for a minute. "Times I wanted to burn the whole fucking place down myself, just to keep Hearst from doin' it. Trouble is, we'd gone from a mining camp to a legitimate fuckin' town by then, women and children and elections and every other damn thing that comes with bein' civilized. That's a hard thing, thinkin' on seeing that put to the torch."

Bill folded his hands over his stomach, picturing the streets crowded with armed men that kept coming, firing into crowds of civilians, buildings starting to burn. In his imagination, the men on horseback were expressionless, with a metallic sheen.

"Did Hearst show how much of a threat he was when he first came to town?"

Al snorted. "Didn't have to. By the time he got here, he'd mined silver and gold by the ton between here and Utah, Nevada…I _know_ you've heard of the dozens of dead men he left in collapsed mines in the Comstock Lode, buyin' or bullyin' his way out of the inquiries, changing politicians to suit him like pieces on a chess board. Made for excitin' reading, what one powerful man can get away with"— his voice lowered—"until he shows up on your own doorstep.

"Oh, he started subtle enough, I suppose. Started fear-mongering and intimidation to take that which was held by the weak of spirit. An effective tactic, one that I myself have employed more than once in my career. Mimicked some of my own behaviors, friendly-like, tryin' to get close. When that was met with limited success, things went to a higher level. Had men murdered in my own joint and in the streets, just to send the message that he _could_." His heavy black brows drew together.

"His eye was on the biggest gold strike in the Hills, owned by one Mrs. Alma Ellsworth, supervised by her watchdog of a husband."

He was quiet for a minute, glancing once at the iron bed half-hidden behind louvered doors. Bill waited, caught up in the story.

Rising from the desk and pacing now, Al unwrapped the dingy cloth around the stump of his middle finger. Bill was expecting a bloody wound, or infection-streaked flesh, but the stump had healed as well as other, similar injuries he'd seen. He wondered at the need to keep it covered, if it might be a type of penance.

"See, when Hearst couldn't get his hands on her gold mine by lesser means, he ratcheted things up. Yeah,_this_…I got this for not agreeing to help him gull Mrs. Ellsworth on his behalf. Any machinations of that nature, I do for my own benefit…" He wrapped the cloth back as he continued, looking once more like a man recently wounded.

_Does he even see it's healed?_ Bill wondered.

"When that didn't work, Hearst started having his hirelings fire over our bow in various ways, threatening those long known to me to make his point. His men, that would put the town to gun and flame, they kept comin', riding into town night after night, like he had some fuckin' factory turnin' out Pinkertons by the dozen. The day came when he went to the level I figured he would…murdered a man considered good and honorable by man, woman and child—a rare breed in Deadwood. Struck at the heart of the camp, I can tell you that." Al's eyes glittered in the lamplight, mouth drawn. Sweat had loosened the pomade in his hair and a thick black lock fell over his forehead. He raked it back absently.

"So one who counted him as a friend shoots the cocksucker Hearst in his hotel room. Of course, she just wounds him...which brings us to Jen." He shoved the empty coffee cup to one side, grabbed the bottle and took a deep swallow before setting it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Didn't you say that Jen didn't shoot him?"

"Fuck, no, she didn't shoot him!" He took another long swallow. "One thing I try to beat into my whores is to eschew violence when aggrieved, that being what me and my boys are for. Only had one who never learned that lesson…and I was as glad to see her leave my employ as was her new paramour. That day though…I confess to thinkin' we should've had her work on her aim instead of tryin' to keep her unarmed." A half-smile flickered across his face before disappearing into the darkness, leaving his face stone-cold again.

"Anyways…his murderous tactics worked. The mine's owner agreed to sell out, doing her part to stop the killing. But Hearst hadn't had the bullet removed from his shoulder yet before he started issuing new edicts. Even with the deed practically in his pocket, he demanded the bawd who shot him to be killed and laid out to be seen by his own eyes, or he'd loose his paid army to destroy the town. Of course, he assumed the shooter was one of mine, so his demand landed on my desk…actions of others done without my knowledge, and I'm the one stuck with making the hard choices." Al grew quiet.

Bill began to get a sense of the position Swearengen had been in, outnumbered, out-armed…his chest grew tight as old feelings came flashing back. The scrape of the bottle's bottom against the wood turned into the faint static of an open comm line, waiting on his orders to shoot down a good man to avoid a war. There had been dark nightmares after, that the pilot had been Lee, or Kara, the comm handset waiting in Bill's fist, hungry for his order.

He looked towards the window, grounding himself in the present with the soft square glow across the street illuminating Laura's shadow. "It almost sounds like you might've loved the shooter once." The sharp snort startled him and he turned back to Al's harsh laugh.

"Fuck no, I didn't _love _her. I don't believe in that shit—learned that at my mother's knee, which she spent most of her time on, cocksucking whore that _she _was. But I had my reasons for not takin' the more straightforward way out."

Bill raised an eyebrow at this. Hard to picture this man swerving from the most efficient way to resolve a dilemma.

Al finally put the bottle down, gaze lowered to his hands. "It galled me to give anything to that cocksucker, but had I refused and told him to go fuck himself, with our pitiful numbers and his never-ending army of hired guns, we'd likely all been dead by morning anyway. Sacrificing one to save others…I imagine maybe you've been there a time or two, am I right?"

Bill stood and walked towards the window, staring again at Laura's outline beyond the glass. Al's story was dredging up too many echoes from the past. He was sick of thinking about blood sacrifices. He didn't turn as he heard Al walk up behind him, didn't want to see if there was sympathy in the man's eyes. This was Al's confessional, not his.

He finally turned to see Al standing at the patch of over-scrubbed floorboards. His words seemed directed to whatever ghost stretched out before him.

"It was Jen's bad luck to have an appearance near enough to the shooter's to be passed off as her. Johnny wanted to be the one to do it…found it harder than he thought, though, killin' someone he cared about. I never liked it myself, when it came to killin' someone you'd rather not, but have to. Probably best for the human race that killin' the relatively innocent don't come easy.

"He couldn't do it at the end…so I took care of Jen for him. Told him I was as gentle as I was able."

He looked back at Bill, face finally composed. "I'm guessin', though, that you know as well as I do that killing is seldom a gentle affair."

"No. But it's a pretty good lie, if you can pull it off." _And if you can live with what you've done._

Al sighed as he sat again. "Go to your wife, Adama, and apologize on my behalf for keeping you to this late hour. Share of this what you think best, but with her only, as I'd not have it bandied about that Al Swearengen holds any fuckin' hint of remorse for anything I've done." He looked at the brass clock on the bookcase. The hands were a fraction past twelve.

"If you happen to see Dan on your way out, would you be good enough to tell him to send Dolly up? Looks like it's finally a new fuckin' day."

Bill nodded as he left the shadowy office and into the bright lights of the saloon. The raucous laughter seemed less forced now, as the clock over the bar ticked forward, proof that time had passed.

Leaving Swearengen's office, Bill was almost to the stairs when he noticed a flicker of movement at the end of the shadowy hall, near the door that led to the seldom-used back way. A woman stood there, waiting, hands folded at her waist, features obscured by the black half-veil on her feathered hat. He gave her a long look, wondering if she was a threat to him or the man inside the office. _Didn't look like one of the whores; didn't have the demeanor of an angry wife…_the rich burgundy dress falling in drapes and folds looked familiar. Another look, after his eyes adjusted to the light, and he recognized the dark hair, the slightly jutted chin, the brown eyes looking back at him through wide-paned netting.

Bill had seen her a few times—unlocking the double doors to the Bank of Deadwood, walking home in the evening, sometimes with her young daughter in tow. Once he thought he'd seen her leaving the Gem, but had decided he was mistaken. She hadn't seemed the type to frequent a saloon, although…_Not one for poetry myself, but that came recommended by a refined lady of my acquaintance, _Al had said.

She nodded as she walked by him, her skirts swishing against his pants leg as she passed. Bill stood there, hand on the bannister, looking from the wild festive atmosphere below to the quiet image of the elegant bank president standing at the office door, back straight and hand poised to knock. Something made her hesitate and she lowered her hand. Eyes darting around the hallway and over the crowd below, she took a step towards Bill. Looking back at the door, she finally spoke.

"Have you concluded your business with Mr. Swearengen for the night?"

Her accent was different from everyone else he'd talked to in town, crisper and more formal. Al's "refined" description had been apt, if this was the woman he meant.

"Yes, we're done." He nodded and turned towards the stairs again. He almost missed her hushed question.

"Is he alone?"

He nodded again and watched her bite at her bottom lip as she finally knocked. At the answering coarse "Yeah!" shouted from within the office, she opened the door. Bill overhead a soft,"Sofia wished to spend the night with her friend Abigail," before the door closed.

He shrugged and went downstairs into the throng of gamblers and drinkers, looking for Dan in the crowd. He spotted him at the far corner of the bar, pistol laid casually by his hand, a likely warning for anyone thinking to start trouble. Dan spotted him as well, keeping his eyes on Bill as he stepped around whores and drunks.

"I have a message from your boss, but I'm not sure it's still valid."

"Well, tell me the fuckin' message and I'll do my best to figure out the fuckin' validity." Dan turned and rested his elbows on the bar, eyes checking the crowd.

"He wanted you to send Dolly up to him, but—"

"But that was afore the Widow Ellsworth came tappin' at his door, I'm guessin'."

Bill raised his eyebrows at that.

"Yeah, I saw her up there, coming in from the back stairs." Dan glanced up at the closed office door with a frown. "Never seen her quite that bold…guess comin' outa her mourning might account for that." He gave Bill a sly look and lowered his voice as he leaned closer. "Not that mournin' ever did slow her down all that much, truth be told."

"Anyways," he said, leaning back again, "I put Dolly back in action soon as I saw the widow up there. You go on and see to your missus, Adama." He looked out the open front doors of the Gem and grinned. "Looks like she's waitin' up."


	14. Chapter 14

As Laura flipped through the pages of the book of sonnets, a paper fell free and slipped to the floor. Hoping to glean a little more information about the mercurial town boss, she shook away concerns of privacy and held what appeared to be a letter to the lamplight.

_Mr. Swearengen,_

_I deeply appreciate your comfort and care in the last months. It was, as you said, "horrible" being shot at. Your words were a great solace that day, giving me the strength to show myself to that monster Hearst again and deny him the satisfaction of my fear._

_Even more cherished in my heart is your sincere, if obscene, absolution that "I didn't fucking shoot him" when we learned of my poor husband's murder. I do believe that is the first time my pen has produced that word, but I will forego propriety for the sake of accuracy in my gratitude on this occasion._

_I did not expect to find such kindness from you as you have shown me in our occasional afternoon meetings of companionship, which is more a testimony to my limited expectations than a condemnation of your character. I find I am most at peace these days when I reflect that I remain under your protection._

_I honestly have little hope that you will take time to read through this little book. I confess I have pictured reading a page or two to you in the midst of one of our meetings, and that imagining has brought me great pleasure and renews my gratitude for your friendship._

_Sincerely,_

_Alma G. Ellsworth_

Laura tucked the letter back into the book. She wondered what kind of woman would consider an admitted murderer as kind and protective…as worthy of having poetry read to him by this woman with such elegant handwriting.

The slim book wavered in her hands as her eyelids fluttered almost closed, then opened again with a start. She placed the bookmark ribbon at the sonnet she'd finished, whispering the last few lines to get the cadence right in her mind…when she had the chance to read the poetry to Bill, she wanted him to get the same pleasure as she had from the rhythm of the lines. She'd just risen from her chair, flexing the stiffness out of her hips, when she heard a light knock on the door. She looked out over the dark street and frowned as she saw the two silhouettes in the office across the way. Not Bill, then…

"Mrs. Adama? It's Trixie, that helped you with your clothes and hair the other day."

Laura's shoulders relaxed as she heard the woman's voice. Even while drowsing in her chair, she'd kept the residual tenseness from the evening's revelations. Turning the key, she opened the hotel door to the slim nervous blonde who seemed to be trying for a nonchalance she clearly didn't feel. Laura glanced over Trixie's shoulder, seeing that she was alone before standing aside to welcome her in with a questioning look.

"I saw Dan a little bit ago when I was closin' up the hardware store. Hearing that your man was still in talks with Al, and rememberin' your unease of the other day, I thought I might offer to help with loosenin' your stays, as I expect you'd not want to be in your corset any longer than you had to." The woman's fingers twisted the cords of her reticule back and forth as she talked.

Judging from the redness around Trixie's eyes, Laura suspected it wasn't just concern for her comfort that brought her there, but she gave her credit for a reasonable excuse.

"Thank you, Trixie. I was getting tired of being laced up, and it looks like the men are still going strong." They made small talk about the coolness of the evening while Trixie unbuttoned the high-necked blouse much quicker than Bill had managed. Laura sighed in relief as the laces were loosened top and bottom, giving her the slackness she needed to unhook the busks herself.

"Oh, Gods, that feels so much better." She ignored the slight frown Trixie gave at her words as she finally unhooked the last busk. She took the deepest breath she'd had for hours, folding the garment and her blouse before slipping them into the top drawer of the dresser. She had considered redressing until she felt the bright red wrap at the bottom of the drawer. She smiled as she realized it would maintain some modesty now and, well…Bill had always liked this on her.

"Guess you weren't much for dressing gowns and the like, where you're from." Trixie looked around the room, eyes resting on the bed, the small wicker couch. "Lady that stayed here once, that I took care of for a while, she had velvet and lace dressing gowns like she expected to hold a fuckin' ball in here."

Laura had an odd sense that she was somehow invading Trixie's privacy, even though the woman had come to her. "Trixie, did—"

"You know, I ain't been in any of these rooms in over a year. Suppose that's a relief to Farnum, seein' how things went the last time. Not that I'd trouble you with talk about that."

The shy, hopeful look from under Trixie's eyelids was the only cue that Laura needed. Taking one last wistful look at the slim book of sonnets, she sat on the wicker settee, tying the red wrap in a loose knot at her waist. "It's no trouble at all, Trixie. Mr. Swearengen told us a few things about last year…a girl named Jen? Is there some connection between her…her death and this hotel?"

Trixie hesitated, then took the offered seat next to Laura. "Yes, ma'am, you might say that. You mind if I smoke?"

Patting a slightly trembling hand, Laura smiled. "I haven't had a cigarette in quite a while. Mind if I join you?"

Trixie finally smiled. "Don't mind at all, Mrs. Adama." She pulled out a stained pouch of tobacco and small packet of cigarette papers.

"Please…call me Laura."

"I imagine you guessed I wasn't just being a Good Samaritan comin' up here. Figured you were one of the few I might be able to be around tonight and not get the evil eye, which I'm guessing you can understand if Al told you about killin' her."

"He didn't offer many details."

"Don't surprise me that he wouldn't. Bad night for him. Bad night for me, too, that caused it."

The golden glow of the whiskey bottle on the dresser was tempting. Laura gave in and poured two glasses, settling back into the settee next to the woman who now looked a little like a lost child. Laura closed her eyes against the smoke and lamplight, opening them again as she took the neatly rolled cigarette. "How'd you cause that?"

Trixie took the glass from her hand. "Everybody was on edge that summer, George Hearst going up against Al, Al pushin' back." She took a hard quick drag off her smoke.

"I've known Al longer than I care to think about, having whored for him for years, sharin' his bed, seein' him almost die more than once. Cocksucker Hearst chopped his finger off to prove a point and it…_did_something to him. A few years ago, if you'd have told me Al would let somebody live who'd done that, I'd have called you a fuckin' liar. Far as that goes, if you'd told me a few years ago Al'd be standing up for Alma Garrett—Alma Ellsworth now—I've have done the same."

Trixie's eyes focused on the smoke rising from her cigarette as Laura took a tea saucer from the desk to catch the ashes, handing it to Trixie without a word.

"Thanks." She nodded her appreciation. Her lips turned up in a rueful smile. "She was hard-headed, wouldn't sell out her gold mine to Hearst when he asked…that woman's never been burdened by an over-abundance of self-preservation when it come to dealing with men, a failing she has no apparent intention of giving up.

"Anyways, her husband, Mr. Ellsworth, put himself up as protector to her and her interests, and Hearst…Hearst had him shot for it." Laura could see Trixie's mouth start to tremble as she blew out a deep breath of smoke, eyes starting to well.

Laura sipped at her whiskey, missing the smoothness of the Gem's special stock, as she sorted out the details she was hearing. She glanced at Trixie from the corner of her eye and wondered if she had been Mr. Ellsworth's lover. But then, she'd also heard Trixie talk about Sol Star, the hardware store owner, as someone who was apparently a long-term partner…maybe there was an unspoken system of polyamory in Deadwood, although Mrs. Bullock's snippy comments would indicate otherwise.

Now that she knew more of the townspeople, she realized the "Mrs. Ellsworth" Trixie spoke of was the woman that Mrs. Bullock suspected her husband had feelings for, as well as the author of the letter tucked in the borrowed book. She rested the glass against her cheek and wished she had a couple of whiteboards and markers to keep all this straight.

"Trixie, isn't that what a good husband does, taking care of his wife? I mean, that's part of loving someone, isn't it?"

Trixie snorted. "Wasn't no 'love' between 'em, although they liked each other well enough, I suppose. Alma—and keep this to yourself, if you don't mind—had an affair with Mr. Bullock not long after her first husband got killed. I guess Bullock figured his wife was in no great hurry to come out West, hence his fuckin' surprise when she and her boy showed up by stagecoach one day, him fresh from fuckin' the widow and in the midst of a brawl in the mud with my boss." She stubbed out her cigarette and took a long drink of whiskey, smirking as Laura failed to hide the surprised look on her face; the pieces had started fitting together in her head.

"Yeah, her and the Sheriff, he was by then. Goin' at in in this very room for months, drivin' Farnum crazy in frustration and envy, I'm sure." She shot a glance at the large brass bed and looked at Laura, who could feel herself starting to blush. "Heard he's been on a tear about more recent events, him not having much fellow feelin' with couples that shake the rafters."

She lit another tightly rolled cigarette. "I kept out of it until Alma came to me, complaining of throwin' up mornings and looking for remedies that she figured would be known to whores, and still remembered by them who had been whores before takin' up more respectable business." She leaned her head back against the bolstered settee. "In the end, though, genius that I am and seein' she wanted the babe she carried, talked Ellsworth, who I knew to be a good man, into offerin' for her hand. Talked her into acceptin', far as that goes." She rubbed her eyes, against the smoke or more tears, Laura couldn't tell.

_Another one who put duty and responsibility before love_, she guessed. It still seemed odd, somehow that there would be an issue with a pregnancy…even here, the idea of another human coming into the world gave her a hopeful thrill.

She shelved her guesses about polyamory for the time being, reverting back to her observations of at least surface monogamy for the respectable people. Laura swallowed again against the fleeting thought that Richard Adar would have felt right at home here. She coughed at the harsh whiskey burn and offered a few words of condolence on Trixie's sacrifice, but was met with a blank stare.

Trixie's shoulders twitched as she chuckled once the meaning sank in.

"Mrs….Laura, you got it all wrong. Me and Ellsworth weren't lovers…" Her brow creased as she seemed to be turning that statement over in her mind. "I mean, he was a decent enough fuck as a customer, and good-hearted, kind to me and the others…clean, for the most part…it was the knowin' him so long, I guess.

"He came to Deadwood about the same time me and Al and the rest of our crew got here. Ellsworth knew when to keep his mouth shut, when to make a joke." She looked around the room with a half-smile. "He was good with children. The widow was raisin' a beautiful little girl, orphaned before her first husband got killed. He loved that little girl…" Her face turned grave. "Most of us either never knew our pas or wished we hadn't. It felt awful good to see a man do right by a child, the child knowin' she's loved and cared for. Fuckin' rare, that is to us."

Laura watched Trixie get up, turning her back as she poured more whiskey_. It seemed paternal responsibilities were very different here as well._

"So, this Mr. Ellsworth…he raised Alma's baby as his own?"

Trixie turned around with a sigh. "Never got the chance. Things went wrong after they moved into their new house…she started to miscarry, and Doc Cochran had to finish it. That was hard…but Ellsworth stood by her as good as any husband could have, sparin' some kindness for the real father as well."

"He sounds like a good man, Trixie."

Trixie finished her shot in one long swallow, eyes closed. "He was. And, much as I hate what happened to Jen, I'm not sure I'd turn from trying to avenge his murder if I had the chance to do it over."

"You avenged him?"

"Stupid as that sounds even to my ears, yes, I did. Maybe you ain't noticed, but I can be quick to anger on occasion." They both half-grinned at that, then Trixie's eyes sobered. "I saw him layin' in a mule cart, blood streamin' outa his head, the hole put there on Hearst's orders…I wasn't privy to all the plannin' Al and them had goin' about some kind of last stand to rival Custer's, and didn't much give a fuck."

She came back to sit next to Laura, spitting out her words in a staccato rhythm. "I took my boot-gun, opened my blouse to distract the hoopleheads with my tits, and marched right up here to his room across the hall. I flipped up my skirts when he opened the door, hidin' my face and showin' my snatch, took my shot, and ran like hell, knowing that I hit him, but suspecting that I'd likely not killed him." She lowered her gaze to her lap. "Knowin' I'd just signed the whole fuckin' camp's death warrant, I asked my Jew to shoot me dead to save the innocents…and he did something I never thought he'd do."

Laura watched a tear fall and soak into the gingham skirt. "What did he do, Trixie?"

She wiped her eye. "He took me to Al. Much as he hated me and Al's past together…sometimes you need someone who can think outside the rights and wrongs of a thing, do the necessary and think about laws and sin and such at a later time."

Her stomach clenching, Laura ran a soothing hand over Trixie's thin back, fingers combing through the blond ringlets. "Yes…yes, sometimes that's exactly what you need. Sometimes I wish that came easier. At other times, though, I'm glad it's as hard as it is to think like that. So Al…what was his response?" she asked.

"After he got Alma calmed down, her half-hysterical over gettin' widowed again over the same fuckin' gold mine, he called for her child and her…the Sheriff, and Doc Cochran. And then…" She took a deep shuddering breath. "Then, he got a note from Hearst, sayin' he'd leave the town in peace once the deed to Mrs. Ellsworth's mine was in his hands and once he'd seen the whore dead, that had shot him."

More pieces slipped into place in Laura's head. _Things just started happening that got past his control, stuck him in a place where there wasn't no good answers, Dan had said._

"And you and Al…you were…" Her voice faltered. "Lovers" didn't seem to fit, but there seemed to be something between them that was equally strong, beyond her former employment.

"Me and Al weren't nothin' by then but two people who'd done for each other, the good outweighin' the bad, there at the last. I was ready to let him do what he had to do, at that point…he'd threatened it often enough over the years." She sniffled and gave Laura a watery smile. "I guess he was countin' on me helping him with his bankin' business and the like, him not knowin' how things would turn out between him and Alma.

"Anyways, he figured Jen looked similar enough to me…didn't tell nobody, I don't think, but Johnny until it was over. After, I dressed her body in my clothes and Dan boxed her up for Hearst to look at in Al's office." She looked at the empty wall over the brass bed. "I stayed in one of the whores' rooms downstairs, listening to Hearst and his men go up, waiting on hearin' if they'd see through the deception and come for me. I knew Al'd be dead if that came to pass, but I figured if I came out at the right time, I might could still placate the cocksucker and offer up my throat for the town. Funny, how you can get all calm and cold when you think you might be the last chance to…" Her voice trailed off.

"To keep your people from destruction?" Laura closed her eyes and pulled the grieving woman close to her side for a second, feeling her nod in agreement.

"I would have offered my neck at the start, had Mr. Star and Al not taken that off the table. Jen didn't deserve that."

"People who don't deserve it die all the time. Sometimes the best you can ask for…is that they don't see it coming." She hesitantly patted Trixie's blond curls, seeing a smaller brown-haired head and innocent eyes. For a second, the knitted reticule looked like a well-loved rag doll held in a smaller lap.

Trixie leaned against Laura's comforting touch. "Jen…she was a soft-spoken girl. Working on trying to read, Johnny teachin' her, blind leadin' the blind there. We sent word to her sister that whored upstate, not mentioning the details of her passing." Her expression softened. "Johnny's maybe got his eye on finally takin' up with a new girl, looks a bit like Jen."

Laura wondered how a sex worker could get away with having such sad eyes. Maybe they hadn't always been this sad. She glanced out the window and saw the silhouette of only one man in the upstairs window across the street. Looking down at the street, she got a glimpse of Bill's face as he passed under the torchlight at the Gem's entrance. His steps seemed steady enough, from what she could see.

Trixie seemed to pick up on Laura's change in mood, her posture straightening. "I'll be goin', I suppose. I'm thinkin' you're ready to finally see your husband, and I need to make the appearance of going to my rented rooms before I sneak into Mr. Star's house." She finally grinned, some of the sadness ebbing from her eyes.

Laura gave her a puzzled look. _Neither Trixie nor Mr. Star seemed to be married to other people…_

"Trixie, if you don't mind my asking, why do you have to hide that you and Mr. Star are together?

Trixie rolled her eyes. "He's got ambitions to be the next Mayor, and apparently politicians have to be more careful than others of who they fuck. Al thinks votes would be lost if it got out that the candidate was 'whore-fucking with impunity'…sounds over-cautious to my mind, though."

Watching Bill's steady walk as he crossed the street, Laura spoke over her shoulder. "When it comes to being a successful politician, Trixie, you can't be too careful. Elections have been lost for less. It's a strange game."

Trixie paused at the door, watching Laura lean towards the window and touch the glass with her fingertips. "I appreciate you takin' time listenin' to me tonight."

"I appreciated your company, Trixie, and your thoughtfulness about that…about my comfort." Laura's eyes stayed focused on Bill's shadowy figure as she heard the door shut with a quiet click.

Trixie paused under the huge moose head over the landing as the hotel clock struck midnight. She snorted; Farnum had been too cheap to spring for a clockmaker's repairs…damn thing had run five minutes slow for the past year. She paused at the front double doors and looked back up at the Adamas' rooms. _More of a range of understanding than I expected from a schoolteacher, but I'll keep my thoughts to myself on that score._Her steps lightened as she felt the new day coming.


	15. Chapter 15

Moonlight added to the torch's illumination, faint shadows still being cast along the long muddy street. If she held a shading hand to the window, she could see a serene field of stars over the horizon of the Black Hills. If she had been away from town, maybe on top of one of the dark ridges, she knew she could've made out the constellations. Her chest tightened as she remembered looking up at this same star field, surrounded by her Fleet family, feeling damp grass under her feet and wondering what had just happened.

She wondered what they were doing…who was trying to track them, who was planning a rescue?

_How is Colonel Tigh holding up without Bill?_ She could see Tigh retiring to a place like this…ample liquor, not too many questions, a fight now and then…she thought he'd fit right in with the crowd at the Gem, just another old man trying to hold past damage at bay for a while.

She was still looking through the wavy glass, comparing the stars that she could see to memories of stars seen from the Observation Deck when she heard boot heels outside the door. Running her tongue over her teeth, she tasted the bitter residue from Trixie's hand-rolled cigarettes and the leftover sticky sourness of whiskey. She poured water into a chipped glass and drank, swishing and swallowing as she heard the key turn in the lock.

"Sorry it's so late. Al's a talker." He shoved the door closed. "Pour me a glass of that, would you?"

"It's not very cold." She poured water into a rinsed-out glass.

Bill leaned against the bedroom door, arms crossed. "That's fine. I just need the taste of something besides booze and strong coffee." He sniffed the air. "You were smoking?" He pushed himself away from the door and took the glass, collapsing into one of the chairs with a sigh.

Laura perched on the side of the bed, insteps balanced on the side rails. "Trixie came up. She said it was to help me undress"—

"I thought that was my job." He finally gave her a weary smile.

"I guess she knows how Al gets and figured you'd be awhile. And I was getting more uncomfortable by the minute.…"

His eyes ran over her improvised covering, lingering where the red fabric crisscrossed. His exhausted squint relaxed as his smile widened. "I still love that color on you."

"Well, it's a good thing you do. I think Trixie stays kind of shocked at how few clothes I had." Laura ran the tips of her fingers down the edge of her wrap, forefinger dipping under her camisole into the valley between her breasts. She locked eyes with him as she traced a circle there before stroking the fabric back up to her collarbone. _I need to ask Trixie if any shops in town carry clothing in this shade of red._ "Need some help with your boots?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice." He stretched his legs out as she slid off the high bed. "Remember how it felt, having back-to-back Quorum meetings, everybody needing to have their say?"

"Hmmm…yes. Don't miss that." She bent to work on his right boot, pulling and wiggling.

"Well, picture that, then picture all that talk coming from one guy. Not that it wasn't interesting"—he took a deep swallow of well water. "I didn't have to say much. He kind of…pulled things out of me, like he could tell what kind of experiences I'd had by looking at me while he talked."

"Things were interesting here, too," she said, tugging at his boot heel.

"I wondered about that. I met Trixie on the boardwalk. She looked like she was in a pretty good mood—said I had 'a good fuckin' woman in Laura Adama'." He grinned, whether at the silly obscenity or the surname, she wasn't sure.

She put the dusty boot aside and turned to his other foot. "She didn't start out that way. Trixie was really depressed over that girl that was killed." She paused, hand on his calf, and looked up, meeting his eyes. The traces of flirtation had disappeared. "So many entanglements, relationships, infidelities, secrets…I kept wishing I had something to take notes with. It sounded horrible, and she seemed to feel so guilty—Sweet Lords of Kobol, it was a tangled mess!"

He frowned down at her. "What did she feel guilty—wait a minute…did Trixie say _she_ was the woman that shot Hearst?"

Laura's brow wrinkled at his question. "You were over there for two hours and he didn't tell you that?"

"He told me about the woman involved, said she used to work for him, but…." He grew quiet as he seemed to be rewinding the night's conversation through his mind. "No, he never mentioned her by name. He talked more about what he and the town went through with Hearst. I guess she made things worse, but I didn't get the impression he held that against her." Shadows played over his craggy features as the lamp flame flickered, deepening the lines in his face.

"I think Swearengen put the blame on superior forces and greed," he finally said. He looked into his glass, swirling the water before speaking again. "Laura, when he started talking about that guy Hearst hiring squad after squad, it reminded me of the early attacks, before we knew about Resurrection ships…how bad it was those first weeks after they hit the colonies. I felt like I was right back there, watching the frakkin' clock count off thirty-three minutes over and over…no matter how many we shot down, Raiders, ships…they just kept coming." The last words were bitten off, the clipped speech of the beleaguered Commander he'd been back then.

"Hey." She rubbed his thigh, bringing him back out of those early weeks. "That was a long time ago."

"Yeah…hearing about all that pressure he'd been under, that everybody in town was under…it frakked with my head for a minute." He leaned back and closed his eyes as the second boot dropped to the floor.

Laura sat cross-legged on the faded carpet beside him, leaning against his legs and mulling over what she'd heard. "I know he was under pressure, but the women involved…it must have been awful for them, too. That Ellsworth woman sounds like she went from one disaster to another. So much loss—husband, lover, baby, her second husband"—

"What?" Bill straightened in his chair. "Al didn't go into all that." He looked down, then shrugged. "Mrs. Ellsworth must be pretty resilient…she was waiting outside Al's door when I left at midnight. It didn't sound like she planned on leaving anytime soon." He rested his hand in Laura's hair, fingers smoothing the unruly red strands as he talked.

"Oh, and Al says the shooter had always been trigger-happy, which was part of the problem. Did Trixie tell you that?" He started unbuttoning his shirt.

Laura got to her feet and began rolling the heavy cotton stockings down her legs. "As a matter of fact, she did. It sounded like she felt honor-bound to avenge her friend's death." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "We've known people like that."

"Well, she should've let Al handle it. She created a hell of a mess."

Stockings still in hand, she straightened. "Are you saying you think it was her fault? She was ready to let herself be killed to protect her town."

He sighed. "Look, Laura, I've had my share of subordinates who've been brave and reckless. That's not always a good way of handling a situation."

"That's easy to say in hindsight. It sounds like both Al _and_ Trixie were trying to do the right thing when all the options were bad."

Past decisions hovered in the air like ghosts, chilling the air until they moved closer. Laura dropped her stockings to the floor and went into his arms, her hands slipping over his waist where his long underwear slid into his jeans. Ghosts kept forming as she rested her head on his chest.

She felt his heart beating under the raised warm scar…death, blood, and sacrifice started edging away. She raised a hand to start unsnapping his long underwear, now needing more than the sound of his heart and the outline of his old injury. She needed his bare skin under her cheek, needed to feel that there were no barriers between them while they tiptoed around old thoughts.

"Cain," she whispered.

"Yeah. We both finally agreed that was the right thing, though. I was ready for it up to the last minute…. You know, even if Kara had done it, she'd probably have been shot a second after she'd killed Cain. I'm not sure what would have happened if it had turned out like that."

Laura shivered as he held her. _She _was sure. Bill would have gone after Kara's shooter with as much vengeance as Trixie had gone after Hearst. And she was sure if that had happened, in the aftermath she would have gone as far as Al had, if that would've kept Bill safe.

_So much blood._

"Bill, did you ever wonder if she had a plan like that for you?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if she had plans for both of us. I'm glad we never had to find out." His arms tightened around her. She wondered if he was seeing Cain's funeral again, imagining different faces, different officers in dress greys, a different body in the casket.

She finally moved away, hands working the knot out of her red top. "Trixie made a rash decision, but I could tell she still feels that whatever she did, she did for a good reason. The blood on her hands staying with her…she reminded me of what that's like. The names I carry, the faces…." She slipped the cherished wrap back into the dresser drawer. "I suppose I could identify with her regret.

"And her living her life now according to political realities…my Gods, could I identify with that! I'm afraid I sounded more like a campaign manager than a teacher when she told me about sneaking around to be with her politically-minded lover."

He unbuckled the heavy belt and took his pants off, throwing them on the seat of the chair. "You identified with a former prostitute who swears like a Picon sailor and shoots people? What were the two of you smoking, Madam President?" He raised an eyebrow while he finished undressing.

She hung her skirt over the back of the chair. "Nothing psychotropic, Admiral. And you seem to be identifying with a crime boss pimp who cut an innocent girl's throat."

He grunted as he sat and swung his bare legs under the covers. "Which was something he felt forced into doing. And I get the impression he's still making himself suffer for it."

"Gods, what a choice. What a _place_." She rubbed her palm lightly across his late-night stubble, enjoying the soft scratching.

Certain that he was asleep, his chest rising and falling in his familiar rhythm, she gave into temptation and whispered the question that had been on her mind since Trixie's visit. She felt a little ashamed to think it, and it wasn't even that relevant. Trixie hadn't been Al's lover or wife…she wasn't sure how much they even liked each other, to hear Trixie talk. The question still nagged at her.

"If that had been us, if you had to choose between killing me, or killing an innocent person to save others from retaliation for something I'd done, what choice would you have made?" She nudged into his chest as she got the question out of her head, hoping it would drift away unheard.

She was almost asleep when she heard a low "I'd keep you safe and learn to live with what I'd done." She slipped a goose-pimpled leg between his and curled even closer, seeking a little more warmth in this strange place.


	16. Chapter 16

_Boomtowns never sleep, but there's an hour, a period of false dawn, when the late-nighters seek their beds and the early risers are in the last dregs of sleep. The ones in between carry out their business in a hush that won't last past daybreak. The stars begin to wink out as the first glimmer of the coming sunrise edges over the horizon, doing nothing to dispel the night's chill yet, and the loudest sound is an early rooster's crow._

Bill's eyes flew open, disoriented for a second, trying to decipher the condition code being broadcast before he remembered where he was. He relaxed back into the sheets as he saw the plaster ceiling above him and felt the warmth of soft skin touching his hip and leg. His smile was wider with no one watching, as he let himself enjoy their warm nest of covers. They hadn't been given fresh sheets yet, and the scents of their past lovemaking had lingered in the threads, soft musky reminders of sweat-sparked skin and thorough fraks that had left them breathless. He nosed into her pillow and breathed in the scent of her hair. Even that was different here, unneutered by filters and scrubbers.

He turned to look at the clock. _Not 0600 yet_, he thought. He scratched his morning beard lightly against her shoulder, finally licking over her skin with a slow tongue, tasting her salt. She stirred, pushing her shoulder against his mouth, moving like a cat at a scratching post as she rasped against his stubble. He tucked his chin a bit, tickling her with his mustache as he left light kisses from shoulder to neck. He waited until he heard her languid hum and felt the first movements of her bottom against his cock before running a firm hand down her waist and hip.

The pale half-light painted everything, even her hair, in shades of bluish gray. Her skin glowed a paler shade, her arm almost white as she reached back to stroke his chest with light fingers that moved down.

Her eyes were still closed. "What time is it?"

"Almost 0600." He said softly against her ear. "You don't teach today, right?"

"No, not 'til tomorrow."

He raised his head enough to see her sleepy smile. "I think we deserve a late morning after last night."

She turned her head, eyes dark in the dim early morning light. "I'm with you, Mr. Adama."

He pressed his chest against her back as he circled her with his arm to cup a breast still flushed from the heat of deep sleep. "Did I just get demoted?" he murmured as he brushed his thumb against her peaking nipple.

She turned in his arms then, bringing her heat against the length of him, making him growl softly against her cheek. "Think of it as a temporary"—she tipped her pelvis, pressing hard against his erection for a second—"mustering out, mister." She rocked again, humming throaty giggles into the side of his neck.

"I can live with that." He ran his hand down over her ribs, her belly, then he dipped his fingers into her folds. His knuckles brushed his hard-on as he stroked her, the heel of his palm against her clit. He felt her head shake a "no" as she moved his hand from between them to rest on her hip, arching again against him. Taking the hint, he pulled her thigh over him until her opening folds nestled against his cock and she was sliding against him with an inner rhythm that was making her breathe in quick gasps.

He pulled her closer, following her lead as she made thrusting circles against him. His hand traced the curve of her bottom, sliding in deep, rocking the side of his hand against her cleft, fingers rough against the back of her thigh. The pressure, the friction was tantalizing, her heat so close.…

Her fingers dug into his back as he helped her ride higher, holding back his urge to pull back and then bury the full length of his cock as far as he could inside her slick walls. _Not much longer_, he told himself, as she began her teeth-clenched refrain of "Oh, Gods…_Gods_…_yes_"— against his neck. He could feel the muscles cording where her straining arms touched his as she pulled herself harder against him.

"Come on, Laura…come on_…come—"_

She muffled her high sharp cry against his skin as her body jerked hard against him over and over before she slumped against him, hands loosened, leg moving higher over his. The rush of her wetness against his cock forced him to close his eyes and think of past Pyramid games to keep from finishing before he started.

"Inside me…_please_…"

Hooking an arm under her knee, he pulled her leg higher as he pushed into her heat. _Frak, she was tight this way! _A hint of a whimper where her lips pressed against his chest made him still his movement. "You okay?" he said, looking down at her half-closed eyes.

"Yes…just…give me a second." She shifted against him, tiny arcs of movement as she got used to the increased stretch, her thigh against the warmth of his side. She wound her fingers in his sleep-tangled hair as she rolled herself against him again and sighed, nodding. He began moving with a guttural groan, her tight clench challenging him to go deeper. Then her own movements began a counter-beat to his, and he knew she was winding up, climbing again.

When her lips pressed against his flat nipple to silence her sounds, he rode out her wave of fresh tremors, then gave himself over to his own, gasping her name into her hair as he came. Suns exploded behind his eyelids, scorching the thought that overwhelmed him: _I can't live without her. I won't live without her._

The sun was in full rise, washing away monotone shadows and illuminating their skin, dark gold and ivory. He clung to her then, eyes closed against the light, chest tightening with the old dread of losing her. Her tuneless hum reverberated against his cheek as they shared a pillow.

"Love you, Mrs. Adama."

"Hmm…did I get impeached?" Her lips curved into a teasing grin.

He breathed out the dread and drew in the fresh blended scent of their lovemaking, sharp and sweet.

Pushing her mess of red curls out of her eyes, he grinned back. "Stepped down to spend more time with your loved ones. Happens all the time." He got up to pour hot water into the wash basin, pretending not to see the questions in her eyes.


	17. Chapter 17

Laura realized her thighs didn't shake anymore as she perched over the chamber-pot. _Must be acclimating,_she thought, as she washed herself before replacing the lid and shoving the container back under the bed. Grabbing another rag from under the wash basin, she started washing for the day. Her reflection kept surprising her. She hadn't gotten accustomed to the increased color the sun was bringing out in her cheeks, the startling brightness of the whites of her eyes against her slightly tanned skin.

A streak of morning sun fell through the window, turning the curls falling over her shoulder to a reddish cedar tone. The skin of her body now looked like marble against the new color in her hands and face.

_She would miss the sun when they went back_, she thought. She was starting to get addicted to the way the rays sank into her skin even through her clothes, down into her bones with luscious warmth.

"I should've taken more time to go to the beach," she told her reflection. She could have gone more often, could have stretched out on a salt-water-faded beach towel, letting the ocean and the sunlight lull her to sleep, maybe daring to take her top off and feel her nipples crinkle in the cross breeze as they warmed and bloomed into a richer red…. She wrinkled her nose as the image changed to an old memory of mild sunburn, of shoving her bra in a backpack and holding her top away from the sticky cooling cream. That experience had put an end to her beach-side daring.

Washing done, she stood there for a minute, gathering up her courage. Sighing, she soaped up her fingers and arranged her right arm up and back over her head. _Better to start out with the right_, she thought_. It wasn't really delaying…it would just give her a baseline_. She watched her eyebrow arch in the mirror. Apparently that line hadn't even fooled herself. She moved her fingers over and around her breast, over the fine red hairs growing in under her arm.

She was done too soon. Laura glanced at the clock…maybe she didn't have enough time for this. The children started getting antsy on Wednesdays, having been (mostly) still for two days and looking forward to a half-day of tending the school garden. _Frak—not even 7:30._

She raised her left arm up and behind her head, willing her fingers to be objective, detached. _To not slide away from where her lump had been._ Dr. Cottle had wanted to do this the last time, the awkward start to his first round of tests since they returned from New Caprica. She had asked him to wait until after she and the Admiral had returned from their test Raptor run. Bill had rationalized and barked and finally issued formal orders before Lee and Chief gave in to the Old Man piloting the Raptor for a test jump. The machine oil had still been slick around the base of the repaired jump drive.

Lee and Tyrol had just shaken their heads at Bill's muttering that the President wanted to increase her knowledge of aircraft. Tigh had been the lone hold-out against the idea. Behind closed doors, he'd suggested snidely that Bill 'just wanted a frakkin' joy ride with his woman'. Laura had walked into Bill's quarters then, heard the remark and watched as Saul turned away, but not before she'd seen the haunted despair in his eye. She'd wondered, then, if that was something he and Ellen would have done.

Bill had just wanted some quiet solitude with her for an hour or so. She had been curious about being away from the fleet, just them and the stars and a cabin with some space for a change. _Maybe more than curious_…she remembered how frustrated she'd been when Cottle wouldn't budge about the testing being done first. Her face had reddened as Cottle carefully ignored how her nipples had hardened against her frayed bra, showing through the worn, thin fabric of her blouse while thoughts of Bill, an isolated Raptor, and any number of delicious possibilities had run through her mind.

He'd finally nodded at her promise to return for an examination after she got back, settling for drawing blood and running a scan. Ishay had barely fixed the tiny bandage in the crease of her elbow before Laura had walked out as quickly as she could in her office pumps.

She could still see those pumps, lined up neatly below her suit skirt and jacket hanging in her narrow closet on Colonial One. She had seen her carefully restored red wrap and skirt outfit there and stuffed it in her bag on a whim. Silly, but it had been worth it.

Tyrol had let her in the Raptor before Bill got there, turning his back as she switched out of her casual cotton pants and sweater into the soft red fabric. Bill's eyes had burned with a bright blue flame for a second when he climbed in and got a look at her. And she had purred _"I'm ready for some adventure, Husker_," too low for Tyrol to hear.

The clock's tick brought her back out of the Raptor's cabin with a thud as she felt the soap drying on her fingers, her arm still stretched over her head. Grumbling, she wet her fingers again in the china basin and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She didn't want to watch herself as she probed for a knot, a pea, a notice that her luck had run out. Didn't want to see her reflection's face fall….

Ten minutes later, Laura shoved the last hairpin into the sedately arranged coils at the back of her head, grinning at her reflection and checking the back of her hair with a hand mirror. She buttoned up her blouse over the corset that fit just right around her waist and snugged over her perfectly clear, perfectly smooth breasts. As she hooked up her boots, she thought about sharing her findings (or lack thereof) with Bill.

She finally waved that thought away. _No need to even put the possibility in his mind_, she thought. She'd just share her elated mood with him when he got back from whatever reconnoitering Swearengen had him doing up at Mr. Bullock's property. She was sure her mood would make it through the school day. She left the door cracked for Richardson, who'd be by their room mid-morning to empty the guests' chamber-pots, then whirled down the stairs, practically dancing off the bottom step. The morning felt _fantastic._

Cottle never felt at ease around the CIC. The beeps and hums that held everyone's attention didn't give him the clear picture that the machines in sickbay did. He suspected he looked as uncomfortable as these crew members looked when they spent time on his turf.

"Need something, Doctor?"

Cottle turned so his back was to the milling crowd of CIC staff as he moved closer to Lee.

"I need to make you aware of something. It's about the President."

Lee's lips tightened. He looked drawn and scruffy, eyes red-veined from too many hours without sleep. "We're doing everything we can for her and my—the Admiral. We've got their position narrowed down to one planet but something above the ionosphere is interfering with getting a decent fix. We're trying to get something through, at least a signature, but"—

Cottle shook his head, mouth drawn. "Can you pull yourself away, Major? You're gonna want to hear this."

"What am I looking at?" Lee stared down at the chart, marked off with dates and numbers and black dots that dropped further and further, angling down the page, the last dot larger than the rest.

"I did a scan and blood workup on the President before she and your father took off on their little jaunt. She was in too much of a Godsdamned hurry for me to do more, but…her cancer has come back." He tapped at a black dot high and to the left of the page.

"Wherever she is, she (_or he_, the doctor thought) would have felt the growth by now. She'd have started having fatigue about here," he said, pointing at the next dot angling towards the bottom. "Around here," his pencil moved down further, "she'd start feeling some pain, radiating from the tumor mass back to her chest wall, up and around from her left breast to under her arm."

Lee traced the line between the dots with a suddenly shaky finger. Cottle's pencil was resting on a date that had already passed. The large black dot still loomed ahead down the thin line. It was at the very end of the line.

_The end of the line._

"So, she's sick, I get it. Look, Doctor, I understand the urgency. I need to get back to CIC, keep working on—"

_This is the part I hate,_ Cottle thought. Sympathy poured out of his faded blue eyes for the young earnest officer. _They know what I mean, they know what I'm going to say, but it's not real until they hear it from me._

"Major Adama…Lee…this is a simulated projection, all right? The markers, her history from last time, her test results all indicate this is the most likely trajectory of her cancer." Lee kept his eyes on the paper, jaw clenched. His eyes were on the large black dot.

"And this," Cottle finally tapped the ugly black dot at the end, "this is when the cancer would have progressed to the point of"—_Oh, frak this, _he thought. "This is when the data says…she dies." His fingers in his right pocket fiddled with his cigarette case as he wished he was anywhere but here. "I'm sorry, Lee."

Finally taking his eyes off the malignant black dot, Lee looked at the dates.

"This was two days ago."

Cottle put his hand on Lee's shoulder. "I know."

"My father…"

"Your father will have been through hell, seeing her deal with this." Scenes of sandbags and secret smiles ran through his mind. He'd thought they both deserved some happiness at the time; now he wondered if that hadn't made it that much harder. "This makes finding them—_him_, even more urgent. If he's had to watch her die, if he's alone now…." He didn't have to finish. The alarm in Lee's eyes told him the risks were understood.

He sighed, finally pulling out his cigarette case. "Call me as soon as you make any kind of contact. I need to talk to your father myself, assess his state of mind while you work out the rescue. I need to get a feel for what I'll be dealing with."

Lee had started shaking his head. Cottle wondered if he was aware he was doing it. _Denial runs strong in the Adama genes_, he thought.

"Maybe your data's wrong. Maybe…you said you didn't do a full exam."

Lighting up, Cottle avoided meeting Lee's eyes. "Well, I've been wrong before. I'll need to know as much as I can about her condition, then, so I can start prepping for treatment as soon as they get back." He started straightening the papers, making meaningless notes in the margins as he heard Lee leave.

_Whatever he needs to hang on to, so he can keep going, he can have_, Cottle told himself. Smoke curled up from his ashtray as he stared at the chart for another minute, then flipped it closed. He hoped they weren't going to find two dead leaders. He opened the chart one last time and looked at the ID picture in front. _You put up a hell of a fight, lady. I wish I could have been there for you at the end._ He swiped at a beginning tear in his eye and closed the chart a last time.

Laura was putting up a hell of a fight.

Sweat had started beading her brow as she struggled. Finally, the deep roots of the weed pulled free of the black earth that had clung so tight. She wiped her forehead, leaving behind a black smudge. "Elijah!" she called, picking a shy ten year old out of the group of children gathered in the school garden. "Please rinse the dirt off the roots and bring the plant back inside."

Mrs. Bullock smiled with approval. Laura Adama was proving gifted in giving the children practical applications of their lessons, and she didn't shirk from getting her hands dirty. She watched the new teacher add drama to her botany lesson, illustrating photosynthesis with sweeping gestures towards the sun and trees. Mrs. Bullock wasn't sure how much the children understood, though. She'd seen their puzzled looks when Mrs. Adama seemed to grow more animated over the part of the lesson that described how plants made oxygen.

She hid a smile behind her hand when she heard Timothy whisper to his neighbor, "It's like she thinks we can run outa air!" Marshaling her features into composure, Mrs. Bullock tapped her desk to draw their attention. _Everyone had their quirks, their ideas of what they considered important_, she thought. Her burdens had been lifted considerably by Mrs. Adama's arrival, and if the cost of that was hearing some odd expressions occasionally, that was a price she was quite willing to pay.

She unconsciously rubbed at the thin gold band on her finger. _Mr. Adama had lifted some other burdens,_she reflected. He was a calming go-between in the business dealings between Mr. Bullock and Mr. Swearengen. Seth had cut back on his drinking and his late-night walks that she knew ended up near Mrs. Ellsworth's house before he headed back to his own. The ranching business was finally coming together, now that Mr. Swearengen was able to openly invest in the venture. There was something about the stocky blue-eyed stranger…he seemed so easy to trust. She looked at her fellow teacher, now diagramming plant systems on the chalkboard as she talked.

_There was something about both the Adamas,_ she thought. She hoped they'd decide to settle in Deadwood. The town could use more people like them.

Cottle was splinting the ankle of a brash knuckle-dragger-in-training, grousing, "What did you think those last rungs were _for_, son?" when the call came.

"Ishay! Finish this up for me and tell Tyrol to work on basic ladder skills with his trainees. I've gotta go to CIC."

Dee met him halfway to CIC, keeping pace with him as she filled him in. "Sir, we've established a comm link with the Raptor. We're working on a navigational fix but there's still too much interference to nail it down."

His bushy eyebrows dipped as her meaning sunk in. "You're telling me we can talk to the Admiral but can't do frak-all to find him?"

"The talk is intermittent at best, Sir. There's also interference with the comm link, but we're getting through a few sentences at a time. They're okay, though, wherever they are."

That drew him up short. "Did you say "_they_?"

Dee stopped as well, her grey eyes showing a mixture of hope and fear. "Yes Sir. The Admiral says he and President Roslin are fine."

Cottle picked up his pace, shoving past crewmembers who didn't clear out of his path fast enough. "You go ahead and tell Major Adama I want a secure comm line to the Admiral as soon as I clear the hatch."


	18. Chapter 18

Al Swearengen held out his hand as he looked at Dan looming over his desk, a leather bag hanging from his fist.

"Got the rents and fees from everybody that was in town today, boss. Couple more I need to run down tomorrow."

Al nodded and separated out the cash, dumping the remaining gold pieces and scraps into one pan of his scale and adding counterweights to the other. The nib of his pen scratched in the silent room as he recorded payments and made notes in a leather-bound ledger.

"Duggins is comin' up short." Al checked the scales again. Flipping back a page, he frowned. "Second time this month." He raised an annoyed brow at Dan.

"He says he'll make it good by next week. Didn't figure it'd do to break anything yet, might keep him from earnin'."

Al snorted. "It's more properly called "stealing" not earning…anyways, tell him he gets current or his wife'll be workin' his debts off for him downstairs. If he can't make a living off petty theft with that idiot of a Sheriff we have now, what the fuck's he gonna do when Bullock gets re-elected?"

Dan sat across the wide desk, ankle cocked up on one knee and one arm slung over the chair back. "You think Bullock's gonna have a go at being Sheriff again?"

Al didn't look up from his entries. "Likely. He's been doin' better recently, it would seem. Still won't look in my direction but he seems to get along with Adama well enough." He put his empty pen down beside the ink bottle. "Help me think this through, Dan. You see any missteps in me havin' Adama act as my agent with Bullock over the winter grazing leases and buying into his ranchin' concern?"

Dan took a moment to consider what he'd seen and heard in past days. "Other than you not knowin' him long, and his…peculiarities, no, I don't guess I do. At least Bullock can talk to Adama without clenchin' his jaw or lookin' like he wants to punch him. And Adama seems level-headed, far as that goes."

"Yeah…good to have dealings with a man near my own years for a change." He started filling up his pen. "So, Dan, update me on the peculiarities."

Shoving his hat back, Dan cut his eyes towards the whiskey bottle on the desk's corner. Al shoved the bottle and glass towards Dan and waited for him to pour himself a shot. Glass full, Dan sat back and began.

"There's been a new development, boss. Not exactly sure what the meanin' is…"

"Just tell me what you saw and let me worry about the meaning."

Dan nodded and drank. "Well, he's dropped down to going out to his wagon contraption every other day, what with you havin' him checking into the Bullock interests and such. So today bein' one of the days he went, I tracked him, like usual…he cleared the brush off, climbed up inside, and kinda hovered around, out of sight. He usually closes that big hatch door behind him, but this time he left it cracked open a touch.

"First noise I heard, hell, I thought a nest of rattlesnakes had set up in there, a bunch of hissing, sounded like. Rattlin' and hissin'. I know you don't want no harm to come to him, so I was ready to—well, I'm not sure what I'd done, but I was figuring I could shoot at least a couple of 'em, get him back to town if he'd been bit."

Al laid his pen down again. He shut the big ledger with a sigh and poured his own shot as Dan continued.

"When I got to the door, though, I heard talkin'. He was talkin' to somebody."

_Maybe the Adama man has more secrets that I thought, _Al mused. "Think he had a woman in there?"

"No, didn't hear no woman. Don't seem likely, either, with what he's got waitin' for him at home."

Al scoffed. "Like that ever made a fuckin' difference. What about a man?"

Dan rolled his eyes. "Nope. Just him, far as I could tell. I figured…well, like you yourself said, he's close to you in years, and I thought maybe he was doing like you do, on occasion, talkin' out a situation to himself."

The wrinkles around his eyes deepened as Al scowled. "You mocking me, Dan?"

"No, sir…but you yourself said talkin' to yourself to work things out, it comes with age. And he ain't got an Indian's head in a box to talk to."

"As far as we know."

"Uh…yeah, far as we know." Dan looked at the box out of the corner of his eye. Even set on a shelf almost out of sight, Al knew the Chief's head still left Dan unsettled and jumpy.

"Hear anything of import besides a suspicion of rattlers?"

"Well, he'd talk, and pause, and talk some more, like you do in a regular conversation. I wondered if maybe he wasn't talking about the Doc."

Al's eyed widened in surprise. "Doc Cochran? I never noticed they had much to do with each other."

"It wasn't Cochran. That's was I thought he was sayin' at first, but that weren't it."

"You gonna tell me a fuckin' name this year, Dan?"

"Sorry, Al…still trying to keep it straight in my head. The name…it sounded like "Cottle". And he said it more than once. Said "Doc," too." He shrugged and pushed himself out of the chair. "He closed everything up, put the brush back around the exposed parts, and seemed to be okay when he got back on his horse, 'cept…" he trailed off, at a loss for the right words. "I'd say he looked…scared, kinda, and sad…mournful, for a minute. And then, he looked mad as hell…teeth-grittin' mad. Nail-chewin' mad—"

"I get the picture, Dan. Sounds like whatever he was mullin' over, it wasn't clearing his head any." He began sorting the gold and cash into bags. Some would go in the office safe. The rest would serve as his excuse to pay a visit to the bank, maybe have an afternoon cup with the widow, he thought.

Dan got out of the chair and paused, turning before reaching the door. "Another thing, boss. I saw Adama's missus this afternoon, and it sounded to me like she thought he was up at that ranch of Bullock's today."

Al turned that over in his head for minute, thoughts of Alma fading as he gestured for Dan to stay put. "I got the impression she knew as much about his affairs as he did, them being wrapped up with each other like newlyweds still, to hear E.B. tell it."

"Maybe so, but she sure thought he was up there, when he was really at their wagon."

Al's eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "He's lying to her?"

"Don't seem likely, but she sure sounded positive he was at Bullock's."

"Hmm…" Al reached for a toothpick. "Go on away now, Dan. I need to think on this a bit." He looked thoughtfully at the Chief's wooden box as Dan closed the door behind him.


	19. Chapter 19

The Asian man stood there in the doorway of the Grand Central Hotel, unspeaking, while Laura fumbled in her purse for a handful of bills. When she offered him the cash, he nodded once, slipping the bills into a pouch under his tunic. He walked to the stairs, still carrying the basket piled high with their freshly laundered clothes. She caught a whiff of sunshine and fabric dried in the open air as he passed her and went up the stairs to their rooms. She walked after him, smiling to herself. There were advantages to living in a hotel with no laundry facilities…one less task she had to learn while pretending it was nothing new.

Taking the basket from him, she nodded at his slight bow and watched him go back down the stairs and leave the hotel_. Immigrants, unfamiliar with the language, the customs, yet they seem to be making their way,_she mused. For a second the fresh clean smell of laundry was replaced with the rancid stink of a detention cell and she felt herself shifting so her back was against the wall. _Too soon to think about settling again…too many wounds needed healing._

She started putting away their clean clothes, and a stray thought went through her mind, so normal it was frightening. _We need to start getting some warmer clothes. The weather's going to turn soon._

She knew _Galactica_ was still searching for them. She knew she and Bill wouldn't be here when the weather turned. The children would get used to another teacher after she was gone, the library would grow…the Bullocks would have dinner in a couple of months and some of the beans she'd helped Martha can last week would be on their table.

She could feel the plaster walls and wood floor shift to metal, shrinking down and around her. The familiar steel bulkheads of_Galactica,_ of _Colonial One_, had felt so sheltering after New Caprica, so safe and welcoming as the Fleet had jumped away. She was just now realizing she'd started to dread going back. Her lips tightened as she shut the dresser drawer harder than she'd meant to. The people didn't need any more pipe dreams. Neither did she. Maybe they could send a party to harvest seeds after they got back, add some variety to the botanical ships.

_After they got back._

Bill was spending more time on business between Swearengen and Seth Bullock than he was checking the Raptor, she thought. They'd need to talk about that soon, maybe hire a wagon from the livery and ride out to the Raptor together on the weekend.

She hummed tunelessly as she straightened up their rooms. The toe of her boot snagged against something that had slipped under the bed. Bending, she smiled as she recognized the ripped chemise. She examined it to see if it was worth mending and thought of yesterday afternoon….Bill had just ridden back from the Bullock place and had been in a wild mood, looking at her like he'd thought he'd lost her again. He'd thrown a whirlwind of questions at her: _Was she tired? Did anything hurt?_ He had stared at her until she could feel his gaze flicker over her skin like summer lightning.

She ran her hand over the rips in the fabric. He'd been frantic to get to her skin, yanking and pulling, lips at her throat as he ran his large warm palms over her breasts. He'd given her nipples scant attention as he focused on the fullness, trying to hold as much as he could in one hand, pressing almost to the point of pain. It had been practically clinical until he finally eased off with his hands and brought his lips down to cover each flushed tip in turn.

Somewhere in there she'd heard the worn cotton rasp in a final rip as the frayed seam gave way.

They'd finally used the opening in her underdrawers then, skirt up around her waist and her black stocking-clad legs over his shoulders, his pants barely clearing his crotch as he barely took time to feel for her readiness with hasty fingers. The easy glow he'd started with his mouth against her skin was overwhelmed by his hot need that seemed to come out of nowhere.

He had frakked her hard then, her half-lying on the bed, one slim hand gripping the bedpost against his frantic thrusts. She'd almost asked him to slow down, to wait, but his blue eyes had flared almost black with need that started to spark an answer deep inside her. His face had been twisted into a dark violent mix of love and…something else—anger, fear, she wasn't sure.

He hadn't waited for her, but choked out her name at the last as he poured into her, arms shaking against her legs, hands clenching like shackles around her thighs until he finished. He had collapsed against her breasts then, after a final half-sob. His face had been wet against her cheek as she waited for his heart to stop pounding against her, him whispering "I'm sorry, Laura," his lips against her ear.

They'd stayed there, his head against her breasts, everything between her legs feeling sticky and sore, her arousal a faint shimmer low in her belly. She'd just moved his shaking hand down lower when they heard a hesitant knock on the door.

Groaning, she threw his arm off her chest and got off the bed, watching him roll towards the wall, his back towards her as she tugged on the red wrap and tied it over her bare breasts, tugging her half-petticoat down over her twisted damp underdrawers. Cursing at a repetition of the timid knock, she gathered up her discarded garments and dropped them to the side of the bed, out of sight, while she growled a sharp "I'm coming!" through gritted teeth. She cracked the door enough to accept E.B. Farnum's stammered offer of a supper tray in their rooms, then shut it firmly again, turning to look thoughtfully at her temporary husband.

Cottle finally flipped over the page of the chart with the ugly black dot, the end point that had been so wrong, thank the Gods._If the President ever learned that two Raptors had landed in isolated areas to gather samples before offering rescue, she'd throw both him and the Admiral in the brig or out an airlock_.

He had turned the page over that held her ID photo—it had felt too much like lying to her face. There'd been three communications between him and Adama, and each one had gotten more heated. Cottle had pushed for their return, or a chance to examine her himself. Bill had stubbornly pushed back, trying to hide his fear that Laura would insist that they return to the Fleet, not waiting until Cottle knew what was causing her remission. The lies were building up as a select few officers made excuses for Galactica's holding pattern.

Cottle was hearing rumblings from the crew…some were anxious for the last vectors to be plotted around the interference, remembering the feel of dirt under their feet and longing for it again. These tended to be crew and civilians who had visited once or twice to New Caprica's surface, returning to the safety of space instead of trying their hand at settlement.

Others of the fleet were quieter, and those were the ones who came to sick bay alone, eyes down, reporting nightmares and cold sweats, old injuries flaring up and acting like they didn't know the cause. These were the ones who wouldn't feel safe until they were all the way back up into the black, as far from planet dirt as they could get.

Tigh was driving him crazy as well, knowing something was up and unwilling to stay sober long enough to even try to put the pieces together. He'd come in when he'd struck out again with Lee and Mr. Gaeta; flask sticking out of a grimy uniform pocket, eye patch askew and greasy, his one good eye red-rimmed and bloodshot. Cottle suspected that Tigh would fortify himself before these forays into sick bay with a few shots done with a wild-eyed drunken Starbuck. Apparently there wasn't enough alcohol on board to get her to the point of coming with Tigh to ask about the Old Man, or maybe she had sensed that Tigh needed to come alone to ask his need-filled questions.

"_You'd tell me if you knew something, wouldn't you, Doc? If they found…remains down there, hell, I can see needing to keep it from the rank and file for now, but"—he'd turned his patched eye towards Cottle then, his other eye starting to glisten. "He's my best friend," he'd growled. "You'd tell me, right? Wouldn't keep something like that a frakkin' secret from me?"_

He'd assured Tigh that Cottle would tell him if he learned Bill was dead (Laura, too, although Saul had been less vehement about her), and tried to tell himself that wasn't a lie. There were times when he almost resented the distance between Tigh and Lee that kept Tigh from making these desperate inquiries from Bill's own son.

Grumbling, he lit another cigarette. Probably just as well, he thought. Lee had enough on his plate without being wet-nurse to a terrified, bitter alcoholic. He hoped the fallout, when it came (and fallout over these kinds of things always came around, one way or another) wouldn't be disastrous. A man could still hope.

Cottle slipped the recon shots Lee had brought him out of their sealed folder. _Nice-looking planet_, he thought. _Reminds me of Old Caprica._He readied the petri dishes, vials and reagents, arranging them on his lab table again as he waited for the first team to arrive.


	20. Chapter 20

Bill's thigh muscles were finally adapting to time spent in the saddle. Getting Blackbird from the livery stable was starting to feel as natural as checking out a shuttle and readying it for launch. The checklist was different: now he stooped to pick up each hoof to check the tightness of the shoes, blew gently into the gelding's nostrils to give the animal his scent, double-checked the cinch around the firm belly, but the sense of careful preparation was the same.

Just yesterday, after giving a grinning nod of approval at Bill's improving horsemanship, the livery owner, a short little man in a tattered military uniform, had suggested that Bill make longer-term arrangements.

"You know, Mr. Adama, you put down a week's hire on Blackbird, I'll reserve him special for you, won't hire him out to nobody else. Might save you some money over hiring him by the day."

Bill had hesitated a long beat before pulling out his wallet. He should stick to the daily rate, he thought. By rights, he…_they_ shouldn't be here for another week. Duty was calling in a voice of cracks and pops over a faint comm signal. Responsibility dictated search and rescue protocol for pilots in need of assistance.

His voice sounded like a stranger's to his ears as he asked what the weekly rate was. He watched his hand take the bills from his wallet like it was acting on its own, handing the livery owner six dollars. As he swung into the saddle and headed out of town, he decided the biggest disadvantage of using this mode of transportation was that it gave him too damn much time to think…the "shoulds" and "musts" and "have tos" kept fighting with his wants with every hoof beat.

He had ignored the first packets, the coded inquiries asking for a sitrep. Years of training had slipped from his grasp when he realized there were specific requests for the President's health status. The coded signature had been Cottle's. There was only one reason the doctor would have included his own inquiries, separate from the others. Bill's mind went back to the tiny bandage in the crease of Laura's arm that had shown when she had slipped off her bright red wrap in the Raptor.

Something had shown up after they left. Malignant cells had grown in a petri dish while they had been playing at being healthy, enjoying the adventures of being more or less ordinary. He had wracked his brain, trying to remember signs of pain, of fatigue. His palm itched as he tried to remember anything unusual under her skin when he touched her breasts.

The first time he let his hand fall away from the comm without sending a receipt signal, the dereliction of duty had made him spew justifications, rationalizations into thin air in the musty cabin. He'd finally shut the system down and rode faster than was comfortable back into town. He'd felt every centimeter of the soft flesh of her breasts, trying to cloak his fear with rough passion. As he had shattered through a desperate orgasm, he promised himself he'd answer the next communication. He just wanted a little more time….for both their sakes.

He could stay non-committal when she worried out loud about the people of the Fleet, when she started making plans for their first days back in space. He could bite his tongue a little while longer. He just wanted a few more days of peace…a few more days of seeing Laura with flushed cheeks and joy in her eyes. He'd given the Fleet forty years. He'd give it all he had left, if he could just have a little more time with Laura Adama, before returning with the Dying Leader.

The first voice communication had almost strangled him as he opened the channel and spoke his first words to his son in weeks. The signal was poor, but he could still make out scraps of an argument in the background as Doc Cottle had taken the handset from Lee. The static had spit and growled as he and the doctor had gone back and forth with their fears.

The second communication had been clearer and more productive. Gaeta, Cottle, and one of the environmental specialists had worked out a sample testing protocol for the local conditions. There was either something very unusual about this area, this planet…or they had been handed an honest-to-Gods miracle. As long as it kept Cottle's projected horror at bay, Bill could wait for the answers.

He'd just have to lie to the woman he loved, violate her trust every second he kept the truth from her. To keep from telling her she should already be dead by now, he'd learn to live with the lies, deflect her concerns about the Fleet, the rescue. His stomach clenched as memories of black ops and military lies flooded back. He'd lied to the Fleet once, creating the carrot of a prophesied Earth. She'd understood the necessity of lying to create hope then. Maybe she could again, when the inevitable happened and the truth came out.

He just wanted a little more time. He was owed that much. And so was she.

He'd returned Blackbird to the livery, feeling the weight of Galactica hot and heavy on his shoulders as he unsaddled his mount and gave him a quick brush-down. Stepping out into the dusty street, he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the schoolhouse. He could just make out a flash of red hair atop a slim dark-clad figure, herding a group of children back inside. He figured he'd have at least another hour before lying to Laura again.

He tried to craft a description of his day that would stretch his couple of hours at the Bullock ranch to a day's worth of negotiation and planning. Maybe a shot of whiskey would help with that process, he thought. _And if one would help, wouldn't two be better_? whispered through his mind as he walked through the Gem's open doors.

.

.

Al Swearengen was trying to get through his paper in peace, teacup at his elbow as the afternoon sun slanted into the saloon. Whores between tricks were taking advantage of the afternoon lull, a couple taking a needle to a waiting vein, a few others washing each other's hair and letting their locks dry in the last heat of the day's sun.

His first clue that something was amiss was the entering back-lit figure going to the bar, ordering whiskey as he walked instead of coming over to talk with him. The second was the sharp clink of an empty shot glass on the bar before Johnny had time to turn and replace the bottle. Al watched Adama's blue gaze look away from his own reflection in the mirror as he ordered a second time, motioning Johnny to leave the bottle handy. He sighed and folded his paper as he pushed his chair back and headed over. It's always fuckin' something, he grumbled to himself as he put on a concerned expression and leaned against the bar.

"What's your problem, Adama? You look miserable today."

Bill held out his empty glass to Johnny for refilling.

Something around Adama's eyes told Al to shoo Johnny to the side bar, out of earshot. It was that last glass, Al figured later, that had tipped the scales and had Bill Adama confiding in him. He wasn't slurring his words yet, but he'd gotten to the talkative stage, or what passed for "talkative" with him.

"I'm just going through some…things with my wife."

Al examined Adama's face and found no anger there…more a disconcerting mix of anxiety and grief. _Time to pick at this a little, see what unravels._He leaned closer.

"Well, we've got plenty of ways to take your mind off that." He nodded over to the unoccupied girls. "You wantin' to stay with redheads?"

Bill glared at him through eyes that were beginning to look bloodshot. "That's not what I need. And don't offer anything like that to me again."

"All right…." He cocked an eyebrow and made a show of examining Bill's face. "You look run ragged. You even shaved today?"

Bill rubbed his face. "Maybe not."

"Let's go have a word in private, hmm?"

Shrugging, Bill pushed back from the bar and headed to the stairs, walking like he was headed for the gallows. Al looked at his back as BIll climbed the stairs. He shook his head at Johnny's proffered bottle. From the looks of the man, it was time to bring out the big guns. He pointed down to the cabinet holding a few bottles of Basil Hayden bourbon, taking one from Johnny as he grabbed a couple of fresh glasses. Climbing the stairs, he quirked an eyebrow at Adama walking into the office without waiting for Al. He shook his head. This didn't look good.

.

.

"Have a seat and quit jumping up and down to look out the window. I'm sure she's still right where she's supposed to be this time of day. Now, what the fuck is going on?"

It might have been that next shot that did it, smooth and smoky, top shelf quality. Bill drank a little slower as he settled into the chair.

"My wife...she talks about going back home. She feels she abandoned her people back there. She thinks she should go back and take care of her responsibilities."

"Sounds laudable enough. So?"

The broad shoulders hunched as Bill sank lower in the chair, head down. Al could barely hear him as he muttered, "I'm afraid she'll die if she goes back."

_The fuck? Woman looks healthy as a horse._He frowned.

"Is that likely?"

"Yeah." Bill banged his glass on the desk. "She dodged it once. I doubt she'll be that lucky again."

Al's brow furrowed as he ran over likely scenarios. He smoothed his mustache as he thought, watching the hangdog look on the face of the man in front of him. The pieces finally clicked together and he gave Bill a look filled with as much sympathy as he could muster.

"I get it."

Bill looked up, a bit owl-eyed. "What?" he said with some confusion.

Al leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. "She's got a warrant out on her, doesn't she?"

"A—"

"Can't say that I'm surprised. She's got that look about her, no disrespect intended."

"What look?"

"The look of a woman who'd kill a cocksucker threatening her or those she cares about. Useful at times, but a pain in the balls if exercised with incaution."

"She's not a"—Bill's eyes flicked to one side. "She's never done anything that she didn't have to do to protect others."

Al nodded solemnly. "As is so often the case. I take it, though, that no matter how noble the reasons, she still likely faces the six foot drop if she returns?"

Bill's face twisted as the meaning seemed to sink in. "Something like that."

Al stuck a toothpick between his teeth, worrying at it while he thought. He strolled over to the window and gazed out over the town. "So what are her thoughts, Adama? She's not lackin' for brains. She got a plan for navigating her way around a warrant?"

Silence hung in the air longer than he liked. A glance in the mirror hung by the window told him Adama hadn't moved, was still studying his hands. "Adama?"

Head not rising, Bill finally answered. "She doesn't know."

The toothpick went sailing out the window as Al turned, eyebrows high. "The fuck do you mean, "She doesn't know"? How do you not"—he bit off the rest, remembering his own dilemma, the fat crooked cop he thought he'd gotten away with gutting in Chicago. His tone was quieter when he spoke again.

"You were on your way West when you got word of the warrant, weren't you? Figured you'd get out of the reach of the United States legal system and just…_disappear_. She'd never have to know. And now, family feeling or some such fucking thing's rearing its head." Al nodded to himself, seeing the scenario play out in his mind. "Course, then your problem becomes one of deceit added to the risk to her, as I'm guessing she'd be none too pleased that you knew she was in danger and didn't let her know."

Bill reached across the desk and poured himself another shot of bourbon as he nodded his head. "There's agreements, oaths between me and Laura that said we wouldn't keep secrets from each other, that we'd uphold certain principles.…"

Al walked back to his desk and sat, pouring himself a last shot before slipping the bottle back into his drawer. "Not claimin' to be versed in vows and the like, are there not some promises about "to have and to hold", and forsakin' all others, and other verbiage that, seems to me, would discourage a bride from volunteerin' to put her head in a noose without pursuing alternatives?"

"We've done that before…pursuing alternatives." Bill finally smiled. "The first time, it was close- I didn't even have time to discuss it with her…I just gambled on a long shot, and it worked." His face softened, the pain in his eyes dissipating bit by bit. "That was before we were really together…and she wasn't in a position to argue then."

_Bullshit_, Al thought to himself. _Cocksucker had been in love with her even then…it's written all over his mug. Maybe he just hadn't figured it out yet. _

Al spoke again. "And now, trouble's come back."

Bill shifted in his seat. "Maybe. It's still being looked into. I just don't want her risking her life by going back until we've determined the full extent of the risks."

_We?_

Al's eyes were hooded as he examined the man in front of him, taking in the shaggy black and silver hair, the shirt beginning to show some wear, the ungroomed mustache. Even under the circumstances, there was something formidable about this man. Maybe it was the iron-hard intelligence in the eyes, or the purpose in the line of his jaw…even half on his way to a hang-dog drunk, this wasn't a man to underestimate.

"You got a secret telegraph apparatus stashed out there, Adama? You communicatin' with clandestine partners when you visit your wagon?" He smile was shark-like and didn't reach his eyes. "That why you haven't brought it into town for repairs, haven't hauled in the rest of your possessions?" His eyes glittered when he saw Bill tense up and shoot back a glare of his own.

"Our agreement was that you wouldn't pry into our business as long as it didn't interfere with your interests."

"Bein' kept in the dark about your "business"when it's got you so rattled doesn't give me much of a foundation for making that determination."

He got to his feet again, his stroll this time taking him behind Bill. Al stood, rocking on his heels and watched Bill's shoulders squaring, back straight. Al suspected Bill knew exactly how far away he was standing, gauging risk and proximity as he made a point of not turning. It's what Al would have done, had the positions been reversed.

"Is this supposed to intimidate me?"

Al studied the broad shoulders, squared but loose, ready. Bill's hands were open and relaxed now, resting lightly on his thighs. _Not just guns and ordinance,_he thought_. Adama's got hand-to-hand experience as well. Might be best to let that "We" comment simmer for a while._

"Just thinkin', Adama." He walked in front of him again.

"About what?" Bill's look was wary but more confident that most who'd sat in that chair.

Leaning against his desk, Al rubbed his mustache absently. "Couple of things. First, I'm thinking maybe you don't realize that since we were annexed into Dakota Territory, the long arm of Federal law most certainly reaches clear to Deadwood…I can attest to that myself.

"Now, you and her not appearing to have ready cash to bribe your way out of a warrant, I wouldn't expect any lawman to look too hard here…them that come this far to serve a warrant usually prefer to haul a bag of money back out of town rather than a trussed-up prisoner, unless there's more of a bounty on her than this kind of thing usually merits. To hedge your bets on that score, though, it's my opinion that Mrs. Adama needs to know what kind of danger she's in, see what kind of call _she_ leans towards makin'. Take that for whatever you think it's worth."

Al glanced out the window, looking at the empty hotel window across the thoroughfare and imagining the cool redheaded schoolteacher in a full fit of temper.

"Second, do you not think it likely that she'll consider your deception, when she learns of it—as they always do, it seems—as unforgivable?"

Bill clenched his hands into fists. "If it means not watching her die…I can live without her forgiveness." His face was stoic, except for the faint lines of desperation around his eyes.

"All right, then," Al said in vaguely soothing tones. "I'll assume you know your own mind on that score, and I'll not pry any more than I already have. But I'd take it as a compliment, your comin' to me if there's any assistance you find I could render that might help Mrs. Adama's situation."

"Thanks for the offer. I'll work something out." Bill was still stone-faced but his cheeks had lost their color.

_Time to make a peace offering,_Al decided.

"Getting to another subject, I take it negotiations with Bullock are going as smooth as one could expect?"

Bill slowly started to relax his muscles, coming down a notch from his "ready to fight" posture. "Yeah. He sent this." He reached in his shirt pocket and handed Al a small sealed letter. Opening it, Al stared at the writing for a second before gabbing up his glasses. Muttering about aging eyes, he began to read.

Finally putting the letter down, Al smiled, letting it go up to his eyes for a change. "Not bad, Adama. Not bad at all. Seems to be settin' some old grudges behind him."

He tapped the letter with his glasses, asking Bill questions about the ranch investment between thoughts, weighing Bill's responses with care. When Bill grabbed a sheet of paper off the desk and began sketching routes and building outlines, Al nodded in approval_. He looks to be the type who could best find solace in solving problems and doing useful things. Handy traits in a_—his mind shied away from "friend"—_ally, then. Handy traits in an ally._

_Once I figure out who his other allies are._

Al set his glasses aside, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "One last thing, Adama…a couple, actually. I'd appreciate it if you'd help make the case for the Bank of Deadwood to invest in this venture, as I'd prefer not to put too many of my own eggs in fuckin' Bullock's basket." He looked away then, a slight flush coming to his ruddy weathered cheeks. "I, ah…thought we might could meet over dinner at the Ellsworth home tomorrow night. Bring Mrs. Adama if you like, give you both a chance to meet one of Deadwood's feminine luminaries for a change."

Bill's lips held a wry twist as he got up. "I met her the other night after our late meeting, but we weren't properly introduced."

_Oh, yeah, the evening the child spent the night elsewhere, as did the mother,_ Al recalled with a half-smile.

"Might be best if you don't share that meeting with Mrs. Adama." His flush deepened. He had to deal with enough winks and nudges from his own crew. He didn't care to take that from a schoolteacher, although he suspected he'd get more of an icy disapproving look than snickers from her.

"I already told her about running into Mrs. Ellsworth."

Al looked up at the stern tone, surprised at Adama's demeanor. _Looks like Adama's a master of the icy disapproving look as well._

"We don't keep secrets…" Bill's voice trailed off as the ice in his look melted, leaving him suddenly shame-faced and guilty.

"Right," Al said, voice dry. _Unless it interferes with you gettin' your way when it comes to protectin' her._Al decided to keep that thought to himself. "Well, handle that matter as you see fit, in your passin' along my invitation." He took a long look at Adama from head to toe, then pulled a scrap of notepaper from his desk and picked up his pen.

"Hold on a minute before you leave, if you would." He scribbled two names and addresses on the piece of paper and handed it to Bill. "The first one's a dress shop owner, the other is a tailor, carries a line of ready-made goods. Tell 'em Mr. Swearengen sent you." The thought of the fear-tinged deference that would cause made him smile. "For the most part, I'm no expert on women other than whores, but I'm guessing that your wife would be happier if she had a dress more suited to a proper evening out than to the school house. And get a fuckin' suit or the like for yourself."

Bill looked doubtful. Taking the paper, he said, "Who's paying for this?"

Al's smile grew larger. "You might say I am. I'm payin' them with the benefit of my continued good nature towards their businesses and their persons."

All the military bearing he'd first seen in Adama slammed back as Bill stepped forward and leaned over the desk. "I didn't sign on to be part of a shake-down racket. They'll give me invoices for everything and you'll take it out of my pay, understand?"

"An officer and a gentleman still, I see." Al felt strangely relieved to see the renewed confidence in the old soldier. Whatever he might need to do to protect his wife, he looked more ready for it now than when he'd walked in.

He walked Bill to the door. "You may want to call on the dressmaker first. I hear she's got a finished dress in that bright red your wife prefers. If you're gonna have to tell her some unwelcome news, a gift in hand might sweeten the taste."

His brow knitted, Bill nodded thoughtfully. "Red_is_ a good color on her…but that's asking an awful lot from a frakkin' dress."

Al watched him leave, once again ruminating on just where the hell these two came from…and what might be out there, following.


	21. Chapter 21

"Can I give you a hand, Mr. Adama?" E. B. Farnum squeaked from behind his counter as he started to walk around the side, hand already outstretched to take one of the boxes.

"Go back, E.B. I've got this."

Laura stood in the doorway of their rooms and watched Bill juggle the two large flat boxes up the stairs. She was dying to ask what he was carrying but hated to give Farnum any grist for his gossip mill. She stood to one side as he wrestled them into the room.

"What do we have here?"

He kicked the door shut behind him and brought the boxes into the bedroom.

"I got tasked with getting us dressed up for an evening out tomorrow night."

She started untying the package string around the larger box. "Evening out? What's that like around here? Is there something going on at the theater?" She took the cardboard lid off the box and opened the tissue paper underneath. "Oh, my…."

"No. Swearengen invited us to dinner." He started working on the knot around the second box, finally cutting it with the knife he'd started carrying on his belt.

Her nose wrinkled. "You bought new clothes for us to sit at a greasy table at the Gem? Seems like a waste." She looked down at the deep wine-red silk under the paper and ran a delicate finger over the sharp pleats and lace-trimmed ruffles.

"We're not going there. He's invited us to have dinner with him and Mrs. Ellsworth at her house."

Bill shook the gray frock coat free from the box and held it out in front of him. The color reminded her of his dress grays and a pang of homesickness ran through her.

"That looks pretty elegant for Deadwood," she noted.

"There's a new tailor in town. He says he's trying to bring some big-city style to the territories. Apparently he's operating under Swearengen's watchful eye and paying a share of his earnings for protection." He unfolded the white broadcloth shirt and hung it in the oak armoire by the window. "Same situation for the dressmaker."

"That's a shame."

He shrugged. "They seemed happier than I expected with the arrangement."

She began lifting the heavy dress out of its wrappings: yards of deep claret-colored silk spilled over the side of the bed as she straightened out the garment. She began smiling in spite of herself. The deep square neckline was trimmed with a ruffle of silvery gray lace that was duplicated at the wrists. She measured the waistline with her eye, the pleats in front narrowing to a point that would hit just below her stomach. _Maybe the corset isn't such a bad idea after all._ The draped overskirt ended in a sort of a swoopy puff at the back, revealing a gray and black embroidered underskirt in front, three rows of ruffles at the bottom.

Bill frowned as she studied the dress. "Is that okay? She offered to add some ribbons along the red parts…."

"Oh, no…it's beautiful like it is. It weighs a ton, and I bet I'll be dying to get out of it by the time dinner's over, but I admit it kind of reminds me of prom night." She grinned then, suddenly a little excited by a…well, a _date_, fancy dress and all.

He grinned back. "You won't be the only one dying to get you out of that dress later on."

"That reminds me of prom night, too," she teased.

Bill seemed to have lost some of the tightness around his mouth, she observed as they began putting away their finery. If he didn't open up soon about what was creating the subtle changes she had noticed, she'd have to start pushing the issue. She stared at his broad back as he tried the coat on, noting that he had become trimmer around the waist since they'd been here. She hoped it was the increased activity, but a small voice in the back of her head nagged that maybe it was worry…worry that he was hiding from her.

"So? What do you think?" He turned to face her in the frock coat, unbuttoned over his work shirt.

"It looks good on you. Maybe you can bring it with you when we go back to _Galactica._" She was sure she saw an odd jumpiness in his eyes when she finished her sentence. He turned away and took off the coat.

"Maybe I can," he said, with a certain finality in his voice.

.

.

It had been a long afternoon for Bill. He'd walked the length of the main street and back before he felt like talking to a couple of intimidated shop-keepers. He hadn't expected their good spirits as they nodded at his reluctant admission that Al Swearengen has sent him.

"Mr. Swearengen, he's a strong man. He has power," the plump tailor said in heavily accented English.

"Yes!" the slender woman agreed from the doorway that joined the two shops. "He keeps…how do you say…the trouble-makers, the drunks from making problems for us." She had lowered her voice then. "We are not here so long, you see? Not so many from our country here…so many new people every, _every_ day come for gold. Some buy things for the girls, the women, they make fight, then they want their money back from me." She shrugged. "I say Mr. Swearengen's name, they leave me alone."

She turned to the mannequin in the window, pulling the curtain closed before beginning to take off the bright wine-red dress, and talked as she worked. "There are worse men in the world. This man is not a saint, but he is smart. And in his own way, he is honest, if you know how to hear him." She began packing up the dress.

One more day or two, he thought, as the tailor began measuring around his chest, jotting down figures and looking through his ready-made inventory. He'd allow himself some time with Laura, maybe help her wash her hair in the hotel's portable tin tub, help her dress in that outfit that would set off her porcelain skin and green eyes…after that, he'd tell her. After the dinner. After a long, slow frak and a good night's sleep.

Then he could tell her the truth, and they could come to a rational decision. And then maybe the sour metallic taste in his mouth would go away.

.

.

"Well, ain't you both a picture? Her more than you, Adama, but a picture nevertheless."

Al smiled at the couple standing at the bottom of the Grand Central staircase. Adama looked every inch a gentleman, a strong hint of past military service in his posture. Not overly dandified, but respectable, even trustworthy. And his woman…she was bright as a new penny, looking a step or two up the social ladder from a modest country teacher. His eyes were drawn to her slender ivory neck, and he felt for Adama as he envisioned a coil of hempen rope being adjusted around her throat, heavy knot to the back. He could see why Adama would do anything to spare her from that, but something about Laura Adama kept giving him the feeling that deceit was a poor way to deal with her.

"Thanks. Here's the invoices for the clothes. I'll expect this to come out of my pay…and for the money to get to the shopkeepers."

Bill handed him the folded notepaper and Al slipped in into his vest pocket. "That's what I like about you, Adama. You're an honest man. Plenty of scruples and the like." He cocked an eyebrow at Bill as Laura looked at him thoughtfully.

"You're looking very nice this evening, Mr. Swearengen."

"Thanks, Mrs. Adama." He glanced down at his navy suit, freshly brushed and pressed. "Not my preferred color, but Mrs. Ellsworth tells me my usual choice of black dress clothes unsettle her child for some reason. Thought this might look a bit less…threatening." One day, he thought, he'd have to sit that child down and explain he'd only plotted against her life for a day or so, just until he found an alternative witness to silence. Bright child like that, surely she could see his reasoning.

They maneuvered around the evening foot traffic down the wooden sidewalk and across the dusty streets to the Ellsworth home. The racket of Deadwood ending another day made it impossible to make small talk on the way, and Mrs. Adama seemed preoccupied with keeping her flounced skirts above the worst of the muck. It was obvious she was more used to simpler garments, he thought.

The small front yard of Alma's house was tidy and well-kept, pockets of flowerbeds placed at the corners of the front fence and around a spreading oak in the center of the yard. The front bay window was suffused with a warm light as they came up the front steps. The door opened as they stepped onto the porch, and Alma Ellsworth, Deadwood's wealthiest widow, welcomed them in with polite words and a ladylike smile. She was especially lovely tonight, he thought, dressed in deep blue satin with a peacock green bodice that set off her eyes and rich chestnut hair. One day, he knew, she'd decide to leave his protection and seek a more suitable man…but he planned to enjoy the time they had left together.

.

.

"My daughter speaks so highly of you, Mrs. Adama. I'm delighted that we are finally able to get to know one another," Mrs. Ellsworth said as she guided them into the parlor.

"Sofia's a delight to teach, Mrs. Ellsworth. Such a quick mind." Laura smiled at the solemn-faced little girl, her wheat-blond hair pulled back in a blue and green tartan bow that matched her dress.

"Mrs. Adama?" Sofia's voice was almost too quiet to hear, and Laura bent to catch her words. "Does your husband know how to play checkers?"

Mrs. Ellsworth cleared her throat. "Sofia, dear, Mr. Adama is talking with Mr. Swearengen right now." She looked at Laura. "I'm sorry…my late husband frequently played checkers with her in the evenings and she misses that very much."

"I've never played, young lady, but Mrs. Adama tells me I'm a pretty good student," Bill said in a soft rumble from the sofa. Laura turned with a smile as she saw Sofia's face light up. Bill seemed to have finally relaxed, shoulders easy under the smooth gray fabric of his new coat. As Sofia darted to her room to get her checkerboard and pieces, Laura went over to him and murmured "That was a nice thing to do."

Alma flashed him a grateful smile."Thank you, Mr. Adama. That was very kind of you to offer. Mr. Swearengen, perhaps you can learn a few things about entertaining children from Mr. Adama while I introduce his wife to Mrs. Marchbank and her ladies." Alma turned to Laura. "Lou Marchbanks is building her own restaurant in town, but until that's completed, she has been kind enough to hire out as a cook for special occasions."

Laura followed Alma into the kitchen as they talked, wondering why Mr. Swearengen was frowning so much as Sofia began unpacking her game, explaining the basics to Bill. She mentally shrugged. Maybe this was a common game and he found it odd that Bill didn't know it. Or maybe it was the child's ease around Bill, she amended, as she watched Sofia hop up on the sofa next to Bill, keeping him between herself and Swearengen. His remark about trying to look less threatening ran through her mind as she was introduced to Mrs. Marchbanks and her staff.

.

.

Laura's corset stays were starting to pinch by the time she put her fork down. The bountiful dinner had been delicious: fried chicken, golden and crisp with a light shattery crust, mashed potatoes swirled with pools of melted butter, roasted carrots and onions sprinkled with herbs, fresh green beans tasting of late summer sunshine…and fluffy biscuits as big as her fist. She groaned at the deep dish of peach cobbler that was brought out with coffee at the end of the meal. A guilty pang ran through her as she thought of thousands of people who were spooning down their allotted amount of algae right now. She wished she could share just one meal like this with the Fleet.

Across the table, Bill and Swearengen had started talking to Alma about the plans for financing the winter stables and pasture.

"Mr. Swearengen, with you and Mr. Bullock putting up your shares of the capital, I'm inclined to agree to take this to the bank's board of directors with the recommendation that we grant the loan for the balance. We need to do what we can to keep more townspeople in Deadwood through the winter."

"Has that been a problem?" Bill asked.

"In past winters, quite a few people left to winter in milder climates. When it was miners and their tents, it wasn't really a problem, but now we have people borrowing money to build houses, and we can't afford for them to get anxious about the winter and leave town owing us money." She frowned at Al's snort. "And we cannot endorse extralegal means to discourage that, either," she continued. "As a matter of fact, as I imagine the Grand Central is becoming as tedious for you both as it became for me, I should tell you that there's a darling little house at the west end of town that has come back into the bank's possession. If you have intentions of settling in Deadwood, I could make you a very attractive price on it."

Laura froze as she heard Bill ask "How big is it?"

"Mr. Adama," Laura said, in formal frosty tones, "does it really matter? For the limited time we will be staying here, I think the hotel is more than adequate."

Al watched the two fence as politely as they could, Adama staying steady on the topic of staying in town as his wife grew increasingly firm that their stay was temporary. He could see why the man had been frustrated; she did indeed seem hell-bent on going back where they came from. And Adama, stubborn cocksucker that he was, apparently still hadn't come clean with her about the risks of going back. This was getting nowhere fast, he thought. Maybe throwing a surprise move into the mix would shake things loose in one or both of them.

"Mrs. Ellsworth, as our talk has now turned to town fuck—excuse me…town business," he corrected himself at her stern look, "might the bank consider a loan to Doc Cochran to expand his practice?"

Her elegant high forehead wrinkled. "I didn't know he was thinking about expanding. I rather thought with his health problems, he'd be more likely to cut back."

He put his elbows on the table and folded his hands." See, that's just it. I was thinkin' it'd be good for him and the town if he brought in another doc. I was gonna bring this up later, but since we're all here…Adama, do you think your friend Doc Cottle would be interested in relocatin' to Deadwood?"

He spooned up the last of his peach cobbler as the strange couple looked at him in shock, then turned to look at each other, guilt and fury crackling in the air. _Time to see what kind of hell this would break loose._

_._

_._

"What on earth was that about?" Alma leaned into his shoulder as they stood at the back of the now-deserted kitchen. The faint sound of two voices drifted in from the front porch, the words indistinguishable.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, enjoying the scent of her hair. It carried a hint of the scent he had bought for himself when they first started keeping company. A rich mix of oranges, sandalwood and musk, it had transferred from his chest to her locks as she had rested against him earlier that day in his rooms, before she rose to dress and ready herself to pick up Sofia from school.

"That pair of mules out there needed to have a conversation, so I gave them some encouragement to that end."

"Are you sure that was wise? She seemed awfully angry. Couldn't you hear the ice in her voice?" She turned her head to nuzzle against his neck, starting to roughen with his evening beard.

"Woman's hell-bent on returning to her home, but he says there's death waitin' for her there. My opinion, she's got a warrant out on her, but he's playin' the details close to his vest."

"Would you like me to talk to her? I know a few things about realizing you can't go back home."

He tilted her chin up until their eyes met. "Really? I figured you'd decide to head East again one day, see whether you could find a husband suited to your station and the like." His tone was light but anxiety flickered in his dark green eyes.

"Albert, I'm quite convinced that my first husband's family would still be waiting, with accusations at the ready, if I tried to return to New York. I suspect they'd manage to declare themselves rightful heirs, through Brom, to everything I have, once they saw me hanged."

He looked away. "If a sworn testament of confession to Brom's murder by the…perpetrator would keep you safe, would that be a path you'd consider takin'?"

Slim fingers turned his head back towards her. "No, for innumerable reasons. For one, they would never recognize Sofia as my heir, as I made her my ward before we were under U.S. law, remember? And secondly…." She laid her cheek against his broad chest. "I don't know for certain who the perpetrator was, and at this point, I would remain ignorant of that certainty if it means we can continue as we are."

Running his damaged hand down her back, he whispered, "She let me play a game of checkers with her, after a few rounds with Adama. I think she felt safe, him bein' there."

He could feel her smile against his chest. "What was that like?"

"Not bad. That child's all right." He smiled into her hair and wondered how the Adamas were doing, talking things out on the darkened front porch.

.

.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

"Look, Laura, there's more to it than that."

She was stone-faced, in full Madam President mode. "More than you continuing to let me think we're stranded here, when you've been in communication with _Galactica_ for days? More than you lying to me every time I asked you if you'd heard anything?"

Bill sighed and leaned back against the porch railing. "Yeah. A lot more."

She was trying to hold in her fury, but even so, Bill was looking increasingly miserable. Something struck her as off…she would have expected him to argue reasons, offer justifications by now for his decision to not tell her he'd been in communication with the others. Instead, he looked like someone had just shot his dog.

"So…say something to make me understand what was so important, that it was worth violating the trust I have in you."

His eyes had started to glisten. "I thought I lost you once, before I even realized I loved you, remember?"

She hesitated, then walked next to him and leaned on the railing beside him. "I remember."

"And then," he continued, his voice thickening, "I thought I'd lost you on New Caprica."

She looked out over the torch-lit town, a few lights flickering high in the hills below the expanse of black sky and twinkling stars. "But you didn't," she said softly. "You saved me both times."

"Both times, it was down to the wire. I felt, right here," he touched his chest, pressing hard against his scar, "that you were gone. I can't go through that again."

She covered his finger with her hand and stiffened her tone. "You need to start filling in some frakking gaps, now, Admiral. I mean it."

He looked down at the shiny toes of his new boots. "Those tests Doc Cottle did before we took out the Raptor…"

She jerked against him, her hand rising instinctively to her left breast. "What about them?"

"When I established a comm link last week, he insisted on talking to me immediately."

"Bill? What did he say?" She was torn between wanting to shake the information out of him, and wanting to cover his mouth so she wouldn't hear the words. Wrapping her arms around herself, she prompted again.

"Bill?"

"He said…Cottle said…" he sighed and gripped the railing hard. "He said the cancer was back. According to every test he ran, you should be dead by now."

She swallowed hard and tried to process what she'd just heard. Pulling one of his hands free from the railing, she slipped her hand into his. "And does he have a…theory on the discrepancy?"

"Yeah. And you're not going to like it."

"Try me."

He looked up at the night sky for a second. She wondered if he knew _Galactica'_s position, or if he was just appealing to the stars. The moonlight accentuated the crags and wrinkles in his face and she wanted to reach up and touch his cheek so much it hurt, but she knew what it was costing him to say this out loud and was terrified of derailing this.

"He thinks it has to do with some factor unique to this planet. They've done some tests, and he's still collating data, and he's desperate to run some tests on you, but…." His voice trailed away.

"But?"

"Laura, he thinks—_we_ think…if you leave this environment, the cancer will come back."

Bill reached out and pulled her into his arms, the stiff lace ruffle around her collar whispering against his chest. She could feel the dampness of his cheek against hers.

"Laura, if you go back, I'm afraid you'll die."

She could feel him trembling with the effort to not break down. She almost wanted to be there with him, feeling everything he was feeling, showing him that he wasn't alone in his fears. Her heartbeat started slowing down from its gallop and she began pulling away as gently as she could.

"We better say goodnight and get back to the hotel, and put some coffee on." She took a small step back from him, just enough to put some cool night air between them. Her hands were folded tightly in front of her skirt.

"Bill, we've got a lot of talking to do."


	22. Chapter 22

The night air felt damp and sticky as they walked back to the Grand Central Hotel, the foul odors of the street mixing with the smoke from still-burning cook-fires. Laura walked alongside Bill, only taking his arm when an evening rider came too close for comfort. Swearengen had shooed them back to their hotel as soon as they had come back inside. _Looks like you two got a lot to talk about, _he'd said as he had held the front door open for them.

Laura had seen the looks he and Mrs. Ellsworth had given each other throughout the evening, and even though she'd been preoccupied, she hadn't failed to notice their disappearance into the kitchen. She wondered if it was feelings for the widow, or knowing the direction her and Bill's conversation would take that had him slipping out of the dining room. _Smart man._

Thank the Gods only Richardson was around when they reached the hotel. She suspected Bill would have blasted E.B. like a bumbling nugget if he had come sniffing around, asking how their evening went. Richardson, though, just nodded at them as they passed him in the lobby while he did the last sweeping up of the night. She paused at the foot of the stairs as Bill went on up.

"Richardson, could you fix us a pot of coffee? I know it's late…."

The elderly man looked at her with his faded blue eyes that occasionally flickered with an eerie sharpness through his usual fog. "Yes, ma'am, I can do that if you want me to. Shame to ask for something that's gonna keep you from your night's rest, though."

"My husband and I need this—the coffee, I mean. If it's not too much trouble." She heard the brass key rattle in the lock above her and started up the stairs again.

"No trouble to me, ma'am." Richardson leaned his broom against the bannister and headed for the kitchen, shoulders slumping more than usual. She wondered if it was her imagination that made him sound a bit like an oracle at times. She was definitely getting ready to ask for something that would keep both her and Bill from their night's rest, and it would have little to do with caffeine.

Once inside their rooms, both went through their undressing rituals in silence, other than a few "would you mind"s and "could you"s as they helped each other out of their fancy clothes that now seemed somewhat wilted. As Bill unfastened the buttons down the back of her dress, Laura looked down at the rounded tops of her breasts, soft ivory framed with silver-gray lace. They looked so innocent to be capable of harboring such deadly threats.

The wine-red fabric slipped off her shoulders and down her arms as Bill brought her a sturdy wooden hanger, wordlessly helping her manage the yards of silk as she stepped out of the rumpled gown and readied it to be put away.

"You looked so beautiful in that tonight."

She made an appreciative humming sound before she could stop herself. She steeled herself against the memory of warmth and happiness she had felt at the start of the evening—the teasing, the innocent pleasure in dressing up.

"It was make-believe, Bill. It was fun, but it's not real. Bacchanal was never meant to last for weeks. I thought you of all people would understand that."

Bill turned at the soft knock on the door and went to the entrance of their rooms, returning with a tarnished silver coffee pot on a worn silver tray. He poured two cups as Laura finished undressing, unhooking the busks of her corset and taking a deep breath as it fell free. She watched him over her shoulder as she stood in front of the mirror, unpinning her thick twists of hair. The thought went through her mind that if she acted quickly enough, she could cut off enough hair to make the wig she'd eventually need. She bit her lip against the wave of self-pity as she watched Bill bring the cups over to the dresser and started taking off his shirt.

Hair down and brushed, her thin cotton chemise and petticoat feeling loose and light around her, she took the nearest cup and sat down in the straight-backed chair, her posture as Presidential as if she were sitting behind her desk on _Colonial One._

"Now then…explain your dereliction of duty, Admiral."

.

.

_Her eyes were so cold and distant. _Bill sat in the facing chair, his hands wrapped around his cup. He could barely see the woman he'd been trying to protect within this judgmental politician who sat in front of him. He felt caught between being her lover, even her husband for a few weeks, and being the military arm of her office, the protector of the Fleet. His temper sparked as he realized she seemed to be telling him she wanted the Admiral more than the man. Part of him knew she was right…but the rest of him began to burn with hurt and grief for what they were getting ready to lose.

"It started a couple of weeks ago…" he began, laying out the story as dispassionately as he could. He left out the panicked tone of Doc Cottle's questions, his own dread that kept him from communicating with _Galactica_at first. He skimmed over the excited hope that had come into the doctor's voice when they talked about his testing. His recitation of Cottle's findings, the recon landings of another Raptor high up in an isolated meadow ringed with thick old-growth trees…every word was delivered as dry as a tylium stores report.

"I didn't want to put you through that uncertainty, Madam President. I felt the responsible thing to do, under the circumstances, was to have more data gathered so that we…_you_…could make an informed decision."

"My decision, Admiral, would have been to return to Galactica immediately and then to expect you to have your crew repair and retrieve the downed Raptor. And you know that."

"And if we'd returned, I'd probably be talking to Tom Zarek now about your state funeral." He gripped his cup tighter to hide the shaking. He watched her lips tighten.

"Funerals don't scare me, Bill, so if you think you're going to score any points off me by bringing up that boogieman, you're way off the mark."

He set the empty cup down on the side table to keep from smashing it to the floor. He could feel the angry, ugly flush that had started creeping up his jaw. He couldn't control that any better than he could control his bitter growling tone.

"Are you that in love with the idea of being a frakking myth, Laura? You'd rather be taught about in temple school as the great dying leader of the Scrolls of Pythia than live out a normal life? Being remembered as a woman who did a good job as President after the end of the worlds isn't enough for you? How frakking special do you need to be?"

Her slight hunching told him he'd hit something that time, and for a split second, before the shame set in, it felt good.

Then she straightened again, the steel back in her spine.

"At least I'm still trying to do my job."

"So am I," he shot back. "And part of my job is to keep you safe."

"Like you did on New Caprica?"

He rocked back in his chair like he'd been punched in the gut, barely registering that Laura had closed her eyes and seemed to be fighting back tears. Her eyes were glassy when she opened them again.

"I'm sorry, Bill. You didn't deserve that." She wiped her eyes with a fingertip. "You did the right thing there, protecting the Fleet instead of worrying about me. That's what you're supposed to do." Another tear started to slip down her cheek.

He got up and crossed the few feet that separated them, hunkering down by her chair so he could look up at her. "And I told myself I'd never do that again. I'm a pretty smart guy, Laura. I'm trying to work out a way to take care of the Fleet and…if not take care of you, a least make sure you've got all the facts to make your decision."

He felt her tentatively touch his hair, then start to wind her fingers into it like she did when they were reading…and other times. He looked at the sheen of her skin under the thin cotton, then leaned his cheek against her thigh. He had nothing left to say, and his worry, his fear for her was pushing the acidic coffee back up in his throat. Under that, though, was a feeling he had been afraid to hope for—a small surge of relief that he was finally telling her the truth.

His hand had started rubbing her ankle in a soothing rhythm when he realized she had started to shake a little. He stilled, waiting.

"Bill," she whispered, "I love you." He opened his mouth to respond, then shut it as she continued.

"But I don't trust you right now. Not after all this."

Bill wrapped her arms around her hips, her fingers still absently twining themselves into his hair.

"What can I do, Laura? Tell me what I can do to keep you from throwing this chance away."

She tugged his hair to raise his face towards her. Her armor had softened…she was more like the Laura she'd been under the tarp on Kobol; strong, determined, but open to compromise. A tiny spark of hope started to flicker cautiously in his heart.

"Bring Doctor Cottle to me. I want to hear what he has to say for myself."

.

.

"I should be goin'." Al leaned his head back against the fancy carved headboard as he stroked the sleek chestnut waves that spilled across his chest. It felt odd to be away from the Gem for so long.

"If you must," a sleepy, satiated Alma Ellsworth murmured against his skin. "I must say, you were in rare form this evening."

He smirked as he looked down at her. "Twice in one day ain't beyond my capabilities quite yet, it would seem."

She rolled onto her back next to him. "I don't mean that. I mean you stirring up a hornet's nest between the Adamas. Have you any idea why mentioning this Doctor…Cottle, was it? Why that would set Mrs. Adama off so?"

He slipped down in the soft feather bed and turned her on her side so she was facing him. The clearness of her deep brown eyes fascinated him, so different from the cloudiness that had filled them when she had slipped back into opiate use. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't check once in a while to reassure himself she hadn't backslid again.

"I have no fuckin'—sorry, Alma. I have no idea why. Her troubles didn't sound like they involved a doctor, not as far as I could tell."

She toyed with the thick hair on his chest, tracing a finger down his ribs, and smiled. "Perhaps he's a gunslinger, Like Doc Holliday...and he's been hired to…to…." Her voice trailed off.

"What, do for her, on an aggrieved family's orders? Adama sounded in favor of this doctor, and I can't see that being the case if this Cottle guy posed a threat."

"Well, maybe he knows something that could clear her from whatever you think she did." She propped herself up on one elbow as he got out of her bed and began quietly dressing.

"More likely, he's a doctor willing to swear an oath, for money or friendship, that there's some error in the facts tyin' her to a murder back where they're from. How many times has Doc Cochran tilted the scales one way or another for the greater good, hmm?" He mimicked holding a skull in his hand. "Oh, look…my medical trainin' tells me there was no murder at all, but a self-inflicted bullet wound motivated by despair over the human condition." He snorted as he slipped his suspenders over his shoulders.

"Laura Adama strikes me as someone who would not be happy at the idea of suborning perjury," Alma said.

"And maybe that's what got her nose out of joint, that Adama's in negotiations or whatever the fuck he's doing with this doctor, and he ain't been keepin' her apprised so as not to have her fuck things up before they've started."

"Albert, please…." Her forehead wrinkled with disapproval.

Swearengen picked up her white batiste nightgown from the side chair and tossed it in her direction. "Frakkin' mystery it is, that you can love the act and hate the word in such equal measure."

She caught the gown with her free hand. "My mother at least made the attempt to raise me as a lady, and—wait…_what _did you just say?" The wrinkle deepened.

He laughed quietly. "His missus apparently shares your distaste for nasty language, so the poor bastard has to use made-up words when he curses. Creative fuckin' solution for being around refined ladies and needin' to spare their…_frakkin'_ sensibilities, you ask me."

"Oh, really, Albert, you sound ridiculous." She smiled as she sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head. "You'll wait to put your boots on until you're on the porch, so as not to wake Sofia?"

He nodded, boots in hand, as he leaned over and kissed the corner of her mouth. "Tell that chi—tell _Sofia_ I enjoyed playin' checkers with her. Might be back to do it again."

Alma pulled the covers to her shoulders and curled up on her side, covering her mouth as she yawned. "I certainly shall. Lock up when you leave, please. I find myself quite enervated from our evening." She gave him a sleepy smile as she adjusted her pillow.

He nodded. He had the feeling the Adamas might be similarly exhausted tonight, though hardly from the same cause.

His old cutthroat stealth came in handy, he thought to himself as he made his way down the stairs without a single creak of the steps. Locking the door behind him, he leaned against the porch railing and slipped into his boots. The streets were still active, even at this late hour, a few riders moving through the foot traffic, men coming and going between poker tables, saloons and whorehouses.

He paused before going through the open doors of his Gem and looked at the Grand Central hotel across the street, soft yellow light spilling out of the upstairs windows. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. _2:00 am and they were still up._ Remembering the determination and steel he'd noticed in both Bill and Laura Adama from the first time they met, he couldn't say he was surprised.


	23. Chapter 23

"You might as well get used to the idea, Bill. I'm going to want to see things for myself from now on. And stop scowling. You brought this on yourself."

Laura slipped her black and white cotton skirt over the thin underdrawers and heavy black stockings that were starting to feel more normal than foreign. After buttoning the two side buttons, she began pulling the long patterned top on over the now-familiar corset, loosened today in anticipation of their outing.

He would miss this different way of dressing, he thought. The slow assembling of her layers of clothes, the later, quicker uncovering he had looked forward to before bed. Even while she was practically shunning him last night, she still had to present her back wordlessly to him for help in getting out of the elegant red gown. He sighed. One more thing that would be lost. Not a big thing…but he treasured all the little moments, the insignificant details, storing them in his memories against the day when that was all he had.

"I've only driven a wagon once, Laura. It's not going to be a very comfortable ride."

"You can fly a Viper, a Raptor…I'm sure you can figure out a horse and wagon."

"The last Raptor flight I piloted didn't turn out so good."

She finished the long row of buttons up the front of the charcoal blouse. "I hope you'll check out the wagon better than you did the Raptor."

Bill poured the last cup of the morning's coffee into his mug. "That was a low blow, Laura, even for the mood you're in."

Her face finally softened in the early morning light. "I shouldn't have said that. I know this wasn't your fault, us being here. But your actions after you made contact with Galactica…." She shook her head as she moved in front of the mirror above the washstand.

"I know, I know. You disapprove, you're disappointed. I heard you loud and clear last night, Madam President."

_I felt it, too_, he added silently. She had stayed curled up tight on her side of the bed for most of the night, finally relaxing in her sleep to turn towards him and drape an arm over his chest. He had stayed in one position longer than was comfortable just to keep that warm, soft contact. They had wakened to find themselves comfortably tangled together, and he had caught her sleepy morning smile before the tension of the previous night resurfaced and wiped it away.

Laura pulled her hair up and begin the process of securing it at the back of her head. One good thing about being back would be seeing her hair down all the time, he thought. He tried to push the accompanying "_as long as she's alive"_ out of his mind.

Pacing between their rooms as he sipped the strong black coffee, Bill mentally picked at the abrasions left by each reprimand she had thrown in his direction last night. She had plenty of valid points about his duties to the Fleet, he couldn't deny that. Just like he couldn't deny how meaningless it would all be if she wasn't there with him.

He froze as she came up behind him and touched his shoulder, relaxing as he felt the light squeeze of her fingers. He could feel her move closer. Her light caress from his shoulder to his neck and back again gave him a thread of hope.

"I want to get past this as much as you do, Bill. I think I've said all I need to about my thoughts on this."

He drained his cup, then turned towards her, squinting against the sunlight that was starting to fill the room. "Do you need to hear any more mea culpas from me?"

She studied him carefully, in that way she had of making him feel like a nugget facing his CAG after a less than perfect landing.

"Not if you've told me everything."

He reached out to her with a tentative hand, growing more sure as she stepped towards him. He held her lightly by her arms, his thumbs rubbing gently against the nubby fabric.

"Laura, everything I know, you know. You have my word."

Even with what he dreaded would come, the universe felt right again for the first time in weeks. And he could tell from the softening around her eyes that she felt it too. He pulled her to him and held her for a moment, listening to their hearts beat in a familiar counterpoint, then bent his head to kiss her brow.

"Let's get this welcoming committee on the road…Mrs. Adama."

If he only had a few hours left to pretend she was his wife, he'd make the most of it. The sound of "Mrs. Adama" in his mouth would be another memory to store away for when he needed comfort later. He locked those thoughts away as carefully as he locked their door with the big brass key as they headed out to the high meadows…and the latest Raptor crew.

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.

"Don't throw that on the ground, Doc."

Doc Cottle quirked his eyebrows in a question then looked at glowing tip of his cigarette that had caught Bill's eye. "Oh, right." He looked over the expanse of high grasses swaying in the breeze. It didn't take much imagination to see an ocean of fire set off by a careless spark. The tip hissed as he pinched the embers out with a spit-licked finger and thumb.

"So what do you think, Doctor?" Laura asked.

Cottle looked at the woman he'd given up for dead a couple of weeks ago, a healthy glow to her ivory skin and a face wrinkled only slightly by years instead of being rutted by pain and poisonous chemicals. Her cheeks were fuller, and she looked like she'd added some weight, softening the edges of her bones. She'd never looked healthier, not even after the Cylon blood cure. He realized now that the sparse nutrition of New Caprica had kept her from coming back to optimal health.

"I think you look great, Madam President." He shot a sympathetic look at Bill. He could tell the Admiral was relieved at his quick assessment of the President's glowing good health, but he read the fear there as well, that her state might change at any time. "I'd like to do better than make observations, though. It'd be nice to know for sure what's going on here."

Laura leaned against the side of the wooden buckboard and shaded her eyes with one hand. "So what's your best guess? You've had samples to examine for…well, I'm not exactly sure for how long." He didn't miss the dagger-sharp look she threw in Bill's direction. "I'd like to know where things stand."

The heat from the sun was wrapping itself around Cottle's aging bones, and he imagined he could feel the vitamin D soaking through his plain gray cotton shirt into his skin. New Caprica had never felt like this, he realized. There was a…a _vibrancy_ here, in the motion of the grasses and the trees, the white clouds against the sky. He could almost taste it. He closed his eyes for a second to gather his thoughts, then addressed his President.

"The atmosphere is almost identical to Caprica and the other planets that had a similar ecosystem. There are two anomalies, trace elements we couldn't identify, although they don't seem like pathogens of any kind." He walked over beside her, leaning against the buckboard as he showed her pages in his folder that kept getting thicker with new data.

"If I can direct your attention here to these images of blood work after your treatment with the half-Cylon baby's blood…."

He walked her through his findings, turning the pages of computer printouts and diagrams he'd created as he had worked in Galactica's lab. Every time he flicked his gaze up from the page, he saw the Admiral, focused and stone-faced as he devoured every word. None of this was news to Adama, Cottle thought, then realized Adama was focused not on his medical report, but on the President's reaction to what she was hearing. He hoped the way she was leaning in, touching the pages as she asked questions, was a good sign.

"So I developed some kind of antibodies from the Cylon baby's blood."

"Half-Cylon," he grunted.

"And then they started breaking down…their protection, or whatever it was that they did to cure the cancer started breaking down." Her hand rose to her left breast where the knot had been before.

"And something in this atmosphere is stopping that process." Bill's voice had an edge to it, like this was a debate point he'd been rehearsing.

"More than that." Cottle looked from one to the other as he flipped another page. "Something you're being exposed to is allowing the antibodies to build back up." He gave Bill an annoyed look. "It's hard to say much more, based on a field test kit that was never designed for this kind of precision. I'd like to run more tests in a real lab, but…." He shrugged as he nodded in Bill's direction. They had this discussion before, over a static-y comm. Cottle's insistence on accurate lab testing was no match for Bill's fear that once back on board Galactica, Laura would refuse to return to the surface, no matter what it would cost her.

"Now, having said that, look here"—he pointed at the picture of a petri dish—"and here," he said, as he walked her over to the second Raptor's interior and held up another dish with a sample from this morning. "They look identical, right?"

At Laura's nod, he continued. He could feel Bill's solid presence behind him as he tried to keep his tone neutral and free of bias. "That picture and this sample show strong antibodies and no cancer cells, whereas this"—he pulled out an enlarged picture of a similar dish, the center discolored—"is from the sample I took from you before you left Galactica. That picture was taken a few days after you went missing."

He heard a heavy sigh on his left like all the breath had just been knocked out of the President. As Cottle rummaged through a small medical pack in front of him, he saw Bill slip an arm around her, and was relieved to see she was finally accepting some support.

"So, this is what would be going on in my body right now, if I was still on board?" Her speech had that clipped, precise quality she used when she was scared.

"No, Madam President. I brought the actual sample we used for that picture." The picture had shown a petri dish with a grey-green discoloration in the center, starting to spread outwards. Cottle now held out the real thing, wordlessly, in the palm of his hand.

"Oh, my Gods," Laura whispered.

The dish was full of a greenish-black irregular mass, blistered along the surface. It would look horrifying to a layman as it was, but just to drive the point home, Cottle brought the dish closer, determined to imprint this image into her mind. "This sample went past the point of being compatible with life functions_two weeks_ ago. If you weren't on this planet, this is what would have been going on inside you as you died."

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.

Laura stared at the blackened sample in front of her, the rational part of her brain trying to process what she'd just heard while the most primal part of herself was screaming "_get it away!_" Her stomach roiled as she imagined her cells, her organs, her breasts slowly turning into a black gelatinous mass. She tried to focus on what she knew to be factual—she'd seen people die of cancer and she'd never seen outward signs of this horror—but every instinct she had was clanging an alarm that set her nerves on edge.

Moving away from Bill's arm that had tightened around her waist, she brought her hands up to her temples as if she were deep in thought, blocking out the sight of the dish. She could feel the urge to sob welling up and choked it back, knowing if she started, she wouldn't stop until the decision was taken out of her hands. The Scrolls of Pythia book rested by her seat on the buckboard, she noticed numbly, cover shining like faded gold in the sun.

As her eyes began to water, the image of the prophesies swam in her vision, becoming insubstantial through her tears. She removed her hands from her temples and risked another glance at the dish that held its own prophesy for her, concrete and without poetic metaphor.

_Poor Bill_, she thought, looking at him with his back against the Raptor. Soon, she'd have to tell him that if their situations were reversed, she would have done the same thing, would have lied, would have gone against every ethical principle she had, to keep him safe from…_that. _He deserved no less than her total absolution.

Both men were silent by the Raptor. Bill had had his say that morning, before they left the hotel. Cottle had given her the facts as best he knew them. She inhaled deeply to settle her nerves, breathing in the warm animal smell from Blackbird's flank. She turned and ran her hand up the horse's neck, feeling the pulse of his blood under her fingers as she stroked the slightly sweaty coat, buying a few seconds before she had to start talking, had to start making decisions.

Her hands clasped in front of her, she faced the two men as calmly as if she was at a Quorum meeting. Bill was in full military posture, hands folded at his waist, an officer waiting for another round of bad news. Cottle's eyebrows were raised, looking hopeful that he'd made a good enough case.

"Gentlemen, there are a lot of factors here to examine." She felt Blackbird snort behind her like she'd just made the understatement of the year. "I'd like to go back and talk this out, make sure we're considering everything carefully."

She could see Bill stiffen, like he was getting ready to block her from entering the Raptor. Cottle drew his bushy eyebrows together and opened his mouth, probably to start a lecture. Laura grabbed the side of the buckboard with steady hands and swung herself up into the seat. Settling herself, she slipped the Scrolls of Pythia into her satchel and ran a critical eye over Cottle's plain shirt and brown pants still stained from New Caprican mud.

"Bill, help the doctor up here, and let's go find a place to talk."

Her heart ached as she watched a slow, hopeful grin spread across his craggy face, lightening his dark blue gaze. She wanted to live, to keep seeing that look on his face.

She wanted to do the right thing by her people.

_Gods help me to make the right decision, _she breathed out in a silent prayer.


	24. Chapter 24

The door to the Adamas' room had barely closed before E.B. had screwed up his brow in a knot of haughty outrage under his greasy top hat. The ragged lace cravat fluttered wildly as he leaned over the hotel counter and bobbed his head at Richardson.

"Did you see that, Richardson? The scarlet-haired strumpet now takes her men two at a time, and blithely disregards that the newcomer is, by his appearance, of an age to be her father. If I believed in the supernatural, I would swear that the spirit of past depravities lurks within those walls, fouling the morals of all who spend their hours within!"

Richardson glanced up the stairs at the room in question, shrugged, and went back to scrubbing the dining area tabletops. "Maybe he _is_ her Pa."

E.B. seemed to deflate at the rational explanation, then rallied. "If that is the case, and he's not here for a licentious ménage à trois, they should be down here even as we speak, arranging payment for a third guest in their rooms." He licked his thumb and turned the page of the ledger in front of him, muttering about scoundrels and chiselers.

##################

Laura sat at the edge of the embroidered seat of her chair. Across the low tea table from her were Bill and Doctor Cottle, watching her pour three cups of tea with a steady hand. Cottle's chuckle made her freeze for a second, then she resumed her pouring.

"Care to let us in on the joke, Doctor?"

Cottle took the china cup and saucer from her hands. "I'm amazed at how quickly you've acclimated to a strange environment. The clothes, the mannerisms…you both seemed to have adapted fast." He cocked an eyebrow at Bill. "And you've lost weight."

Bill nodded. "It's a lot more physical here. There's some rudimentary automation, primarily by steam, no electricity—"

"No, they've been experimenting with electricity in the cities, they just don't think it's very practical yet," Laura broke in. "The medical care…it's very basic. No antibiotics, no x-rays…vaccines are pretty new, I think."

Cottle drank some of the tea and looked around the room, taking in the wind-up clock, the small stove that kept the kettle of water warm, the oil lamps. "Can you imagine watching all that unfold in front of you? It'd be like living in a museum."

Bill put his teacup down with a rattle. "I did live in a museum for a few weeks, remember? There were public heads and gift shops. And you could leave when you'd had enough." He glanced back at the bedroom and then at Laura. "But there are benefits here that more than make up for the inconveniences. At least in our case—Laura's case."

Her expression turned frosty. "I think that's my decision, Bill, as to how much weight that carries. Like you said, it's my case." She turned back to Cottle. "It's great that your research indicates this is a habitable planet, Doctor. But we've all been down this path before. Who's to say it'll be safe in the long run? And if we're found by the Cylons again, we could not only be wiped out, we could be bringing all that down on a planetful of people when it's not even their fight."

Bill straightened in his chair. "With the atmospheric interferences, there's a chance this place would never show up on their DRADIS at all."

She leaned forward, speech clipped. "It might make the planet hard to find, but it doesn't cover the whole solar system. Isn't that what you said when we jumped into orbit?"

"Yes, but—"

"Admiral? Madam President?"

They both turned to Cottle. Laura felt a quick chill as she looked at his eyes.

"What?"

He sighed. "There's a solution, but you're not going to like it."

She could tell Bill felt the same chill as she did.

Cottle reached in his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case, took one out, and flicked his lighter. He waited until he blew a long puff of smoke before he spoke.

"Well?" She had a bad feeling about this.

"Madam President, you could stay here, keep the cancer from coming back, as far as we know…as I said, it looks like you've adapted pretty well. And Admiral…you could come back, protect the Fleet while the Quorum decides on a move."

Laura was on her feet before she realized it. "Absolutely not. We will present the facts to the Quorum—to the Fleet, and we'll abide by their decision."

She was surprised by the bitterness in Bill's face as he all but snarled, "Because letting the will of the people govern this kind of issue worked so well on New Caprica."

"You were all for majority rule at the time, as I recall. And don't you dare talk about how things went on New Caprica. You've"—she broke off, feeling the stench of detention filling her lungs. "You don't have the right."

Bill shook Cottle's hand off his arm and got to his feet as well. "I have the right to relieve you from office if you become unfit to serve, and I think your wanting to go back to essentially commit suicide is strong enough evidence of that."

"Doctor Cottle." She looked at him with a steady gaze until he rose to his feet. "Do you think, in your medical opinion and as a senior officer, that at this time, I am unfit to serve as President?"

She watched him stand there, expression grave and worried, next to a stone-faced Bill Adama. Cottle started opening his mouth when fists began beating at their door.

"Mr. Adama! One of your new compatriots is creating a disturbance at the Number Ten saloon! Mr. Adama!"

Bill swung the door open on a frantic E.B. Farnum. "What the frak—?"

Farnum was wringing his hands as he darted probing glances around the room. His face seemed to fall as he saw everyone fully clothed and taking tea.

"It's the one-eyed old drunk that followed you into town. Shall you deal with him yourself, or shall I inform Tom Nuttall that he may be shot under color of law for creating a disturbance?"

Bill looked helplessly at Cottle and Laura. "Saul must have gotten someone to bring him into town."

"What's he doing here? I didn't even know he was on the—"

She stopped as she caught Farnum's curious expression. "You better go, Mr. Adama." She stepped back. "We'll continue this when you get back."

"Doc, are you coming?"

Cottle looked worriedly at Laura then turned to Bill. "Sounds like I might be needed."

Bill and Cottle pushed past Farnum and headed for the stairs.

"Mrs. Adama, might I take this opportunity to inquire about your plans for payment of your guest's—or guests'—stay?"

"Mr. Farnum, you are the second-most incorrigible weasel I've ever met in my life." His astonishment made her feel fractionally better as she slammed the door in his face.

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"What the fuck is going on out there?" Al slammed his coffee cup down on the rough downstairs table.

Thank God Dan was back. The new imponderables of the Adamas' mysterious friend 'Doc' and who he was to them were bad enough, but this new wrinkle of the one-eyed cocksucker who hitched a ride into town with Johnny was giving him a headache.

Dan lumbered over to the table, a dark scowl on his face, and gestured for Jewel to bring him some coffee.

"You can come get it your own fuckin' self if you can't ask for it right," Jewel answered in a soft slur, jaw set as she awkwardly crossed her arms across her chest, wrists bent in like talons.

"Jewel. Get Dan a cup of fuckin' coffee and bring the pot over here," Al called as she turned away and shuffled towards the kitchen.

He raised an eyebrow and looked at his right-hand man. "Talking to the gimp directly suddenly seems overly fuckin' complicated to you? What's got you out of fuckin' sorts?"

"Tom Nutall's 'bout to throw his apron over his head, he's so bent outa shape over Adama's friend. What the hell'd Johnny drag him into town for, anyway?"

Al rubbed his moustache as he thought. "I'm guessing Johnny figured a man out that way, near where Adama sneaks off to on a regular basis, might be someone known to him. Further, Johnny, bein' the mental giant that he is, doubtless assumed that a man carrying himself similar to Adama would of necessity be considered friend, not foe."

Dan snorted. "Adama ain't never tore up a saloon."

"That we know of." Al looked out the Gem's open door. The scene unfolding before him gave him pause. "Speak of the devil. There's Adama and his doctor friend out in the thoroughfare, headed to the Number Ten."

Dan looked as well. "And there's E.B., bringing up the rear, gettin' his nose all up in it."

The chair screeched against the sawdust-strewn floor as Al pushed his seat back. "No sign of Mrs. Adama, looks like." He brushed his hands down over his worn vest and jacket a few times.

"What do you think, Dan? Adequately clean enough appearance to call on the wife?"

Dan looked at him doubtfully. "I…guess. Sure, boss. But you think he's gonna appreciate you callin' on his missus like that, minute he's out the fuckin' door?"

Using the barber's mirror in the corner, Al brushed his oiled hair back and went over his moustache again. "Any luck, Dan, and I'll have been and gone before he finds out, leavin' it to his wife's fuckin' conscience to determine what he'd be told."

He headed towards the door, then stopped and motioned Dan to come to him. "Should the moment arise, as you monitor the situation, that it seems meet to offer the newcomer a bottle and some pussy, take it upon yourself to give a generous discount. Offer the same to Adama, who won't accept, and to his doctor friend, whose proclivities and preferences are as of yet unknown," he said.

"Al! What about your fuckin' coffee?" Jewel yelled from the kitchen entrance.

He snorted. "Maybe Mrs. Adama'll offer a cup of that fuckin' black Darjeeling."

He shot a look at Tom Nutall's Number Ten saloon. Adama and both of his associates seemed to be inside and he hadn't heard any gunshots yet. The day was pleasant enough, a crisp edge of fall taking some of the stink out of the air.

Adama had mentioned yesterday that a friend or two from his last posting might be joining him, that they would be new to civilian life and might say or do things that seemed odd to people of the town. Al thought he recognized that for the steaming pile of horseshit it undoubtedly was. More likely they were deserters or fleeing uncovered misdeeds. Doctors were notorious for digging up bodies to further their anatomical knowledge, and he hadn't met many honest men who were lacking an eye.

As he walked into the dimness of the hotel, he wondered again what misdeeds were in the lovely Mrs. Adama's history. The weight of his favorite knife inside his boot pressed reassuringly against his calf as he started up the stairs. His was the longer reach and likely the greater experience, he knew, but she seemed the type that wouldn't shrink from fighting dirty. Not if she felt she had to win.

#############################

Laura had seen the swarthy pimp come out of the Gem and head towards the hotel as Bill and Cottle had reached the other side of the street. She had hoped he might be on his way to the bank, but no, he'd been walking straight and steady towards the hotel entrance as she watched from her window. She could already hear his boots on the stair treads. She was surprised at her sense of relief, knowing it was Al Swearengen outside her door. At least he wouldn't be trying to relieve her of office or giving her sad, worried eyes.

His knock was softer than she expected, and she realized one less knuckle would make a quieter knock. She opened the door as if she'd been expecting him.

"Mr. Swearengen." She stood at the door, watching his shadowed face as she waited for him to say what he wanted.

"Mrs. Adama, how do you do?"

"Bill's not here at the moment. If you need him, he's over at the Number Ten."

"Yes, I know. May I come in?"

This overly formal Al was more disconcerting that the blustering, threatening Al had been, and she had to admit she was curious about his purpose. If it hadn't been for him, she might still be in the dark about Bill and Cottle, and her own condition. The thought made her angry all over again as she swept her skirts to one side and stood back, letting him in.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Swearengen?"

"Do you mind if I sit down?"

_Oh, Sweet Lords of Kobol. She didn't have time for this. _

"Please, have a seat. But Bill's not here, so—"

"That's why I'm here. Thought it might be time for us to have a chat, just the two of us."

She raised an eyebrow. "What brought this on?"

He settled into his chair across the low table from her. "I figured you'd be pissed off after the blow-out at Alma's. Didn't count on you being so undone that your husband would have to call in reinforcements."

Laura stiffened. "That's not the case here. You don't know what you're talking about."

"No? You two don't have a friend in the world, then within a day or so of the two of you havin' a fallin' out, two more strangers, friends of your husband, show up in town. That don't strike you as havin' a connection? Because frankly, I'm at a loss to interpret it any other way.

"Say, you still got some water in the kettle over there?" He nodded at the pot-bellied stove.

"Uh…yes. We were—"

He got to his feet. "All the ruckus of the morning made me miss my second cup of coffee. Seein' as how you've got the accouterments set out already, how about making another pot?"

Without waiting for her answer, he went over to the stove and picked up the kettle by its wooden handle.

"Mr. Swearengen…"

"I'll just set this here, as I'm sure you know more than I do about how this works." He seated himself again and fixed his dark gaze on her.

She grudgingly poured the fresh hot water into the china teapot, increasingly curious about this visit.

"I don't know how long your husband generally takes to sort out his drunken friend, so I'll get to the point. I take it you're bein' hard-headed about stayin' put where you're safe, something in you instead drivin' you to go back where you came from, some kind of call of duty or similar bullshit. Is that the gist of it?"

Her hand shook as she measured fresh tea leaves into the pot.

"I have certain responsibilities to others where I came from. I'm expected back, to take care of those responsibilities." She stopped, unable to imagine how to convey the seriousness of her role in the Fleet, and wondering why she was even trying.

"Your man says you're likely to die if you return. I confess ignorance in a variety of areas, so maybe you could enlighten me as to how this works, exactly. In my experience, death has a way of interfering with carrying out responsibilities, unless you leave one hell of a will."

She looked away from the piercing eyes and checked the steeping leaves. His mix of sympathy and sarcasm was disconcerting. "It may be that I have enough time to do what I need to do. That's what I'm hoping, anyway."

He nodded gravely. "So, then, duty'll be served, you'll be dead…and what about him? I'd thought there was a lot of heat between you two, to hear E.B. tell it."

He looked around the room, pointedly glancing at the four poster bed visible through the folding doors. "I figured maybe you're not married—mind's not made up on that point—but I thought he was more to you than somebody to fuck while you're on the road. Seemed like there was more history between you two than that."

Her lips twitched as she began to pour from the teapot. "There is a great deal of history between us. But that doesn't give him the right to make decisions for me like this."

He raised an eyebrow as he took the offered teacup from her. "No? You one of those suffragettes? Last I heard, if you _are_ married, he's got every right to make those kinds of decisions for you. More important, it seems like he's got your best fuckin' interests at heart, with no ulterior motive than I can discern."

He blew on the surface of his tea. "Rare enough, these days. You sure you want to turn your nose up at that, it not bein' likely that you'll get another chance?" He looked at her over the rim of the cup.

There was just enough kindness in his eyes and in the gentleness of his last words to make Laura's throat tighten. The last thing she needed to be thinking about was lost chances. She'd already gotten more than she'd dreamed possible when she'd huddled on a concrete floor in detention, or when she'd been in sickbay, getting ready to let go of life. She was ready to be grateful for this respite, and go take up the mantle of the Dying Leader.

Almost ready.

She took a deep swallow of tea and put her cup down. "I heard about last year. I know you understand doing what you have to do for the greater good. I know—"

His face darkened. "Pardon my French, but you don't know a fucking thing or you wouldn't be running your yap about last year."

His brow knitted as he seemed to be searching for the right words. "Mrs. Adama, a man like me…my time is about done. It's a new fuckin' age, and while I'm not looking to take the fuckin' easy way out, fact is, few enough would cry over my coffin if it had come to that.

"You, on the other hand…" He examined her in the clinical way she'd noted before, like he was assaying her value. "Adama seems to think the sun rises and sets on your ass. Sad thing, to toss that aside like it's nothin'. And you yourself seem to think you got people back home who think you're important. They gonna enjoy seein' you dead and buried?"

He set his empty cup down deliberately, centering the cup in the saucer. "You think you'll be remembered, that these folks will write stories about you, rend their garments and the like when you're dead?"

He turned his eyes towards the window and the sliver of Deadwood it showed. "Bullshit. You go back and do your duty, I guarantee you'll be old news before the first worm comes callin'. Now, I don't know what this fuckin' duty of yours consists of…a sick father, brother in prison, mother's in the poorhouse, whatever the hell it is, but if you can't go back safe, you're just addin' to their fuckin' misery, as they'll have whatever the fuck their problem is, and they'll be heartsick over you, comin' back just to die in front of 'em."

He leaned forward, green-flecked eyes glittering. "I didn't take you for that kind of selfish, self-important cunt, at least not after I got to know you." He sat back with a sigh. "But on occasion, I've been known to be wrong."

Laura's steam had been building while he chastised and sneered, and she felt her temper getting to a dangerously high point. His crude speech, wrong in the details but echoing Bill in sentiment, niggled at her brain like the worms he'd taunted her with.

And the terrifying thought went through her mind: what if she was wrong? What if the scrolls were wrong? If she went back after being lost here, after going through New Caprica, just to sicken and die…would the people understand, she wondered? Or would it be a disheartening blow?

The room seemed to whirl with the faces of the Fleet, the faces of the settlers lost on New Caprica. She was on her feet, needing to lash out, needing to bleed off some of the pressure that was pounding in her skull. A tiny voice urged caution, and she shoved it out of the way, furious with him, her fate, and

"…the godsdamn prophesy!"

She realized in horror that she'd said the last part out loud.

AL's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me…the _what_?"

She held on to the back of the chair and stared at the boss of the town, and a weariness hit her as bad as any she'd felt on New Caprica.

_Frak it_.

They'll be gone in twenty-four hours anyway. At the worst he'd think she'd lost her mind, if he didn't already.

"There's a…prophesy, where I'm from. Most of the people there believe it. A prophesy about me."

His look turned satisfactorily wary. "What, you think you're Joan of fuckin' Arc, come to lead an army for the Lord? Does that Doc with you know you're havin' these thoughts?"

"I don't know who you're talking about, but no, not an army. A dying leader is prophesied to lead my people to a new home." She sank down into her chair, and realized it felt good to say it out loud, even if he thought she was crazy. "If I go back, there's something there that will make me sick…that'll kill me. But before I die, I'm supposed to lead my people to a place where they can live in peace."

Now it was his turn to stand. "So, you're supposed to go back, get sick, and hope that this fuckin' prophesy shit works out so you find a new home for your folks, before you kick? Am I hearin' this right?"

"That's the gist of it, yes." This was starting to feel like a bad press conference.

He frowned. "Adama go along with this…notion of yours?"

"He didn't at first, but he's come to believe it, too."

"If he believes it, how come he's been lying to you about being able to go back, after he got in touch with his friends? That don't tell you maybe he's not on board with this as much as you think?"

Laura looked down at her hands, knotted together in her lap. "I think we both enjoyed being together here, without that hanging over our heads. It felt good to not think about it for a while."

"And you were happy enough to not be the dyin' fuckin' leader while you was here, from what I could see." He began pacing back and forth in the small front room.

"So, let me ask you this, Mrs. Adama, as someone with some background in deployments and maneuvers, who's solved a few problems in my time…how many fuckin' people are you supposed to find a new place for, while you're busy dyin'?"

She barely whispered a figure under her breath. His frown told her he hadn't heard.

"What was that?"

"About forty-one thousand."

A smile played around her lips as she anticipated his reaction once the figure sunk in. She'd be a legend, the story of the madwoman who thought she was a mythical figure in charge of thousands of people seeking a home. A madwoman who had vanished as suddenly as she'd arrived.

"Mrs. Adama…"

Here it comes, she thought. A polite leave-taking and probably a visit with Bill about his wife's insanity.

He stood in front of her, stoking his chin and looking again out the window.

"Let me think on this a while. You and Adama come on over to the Gem after he gets his friend sorted out."

Pausing at the door, he turned a final time.

"And Mrs. Adama…thanks for the tea."


	25. Chapter 25

Bill's eyes took a second to adjust to the dim lights in the Number Ten, but he could hear Saul as soon as he and Cottle came in, arguing with Tom Nuttall over the lack of understandable card games. As his vision adjusted, he saw the empty shot glasses in front of his XO and sighed. He'd been dragging Saul out of dives almost half his life…at least this time nobody was bloody.

Henry Manning was paused halfway between the bar and Saul, a bottle in one hand, a sawed-off shotgun in the other, waiting for instructions from his boss. Both Henry and Tom seemed relieved at their arrival, Tom sending them off with an invitation to return once they got their friend sorted out.

Saul had been "sorted out" in short order, once Bill and Doc Cottle had wrangled him into the Gem, Cottle settling in at a table with the XO. Al called to Bill from his office then, asking for a word with him, a note of concern in his voice.

"I need to speak with the owner, Doc. Are you going to be okay down here?" Bill asked.

Cottle quirked an eyebrow at Saul. "I doubt he can come up with anything I can't handle."

Saul snorted, and then looked around the room, watching the Gem girls in various states of undress as they made their way around the tables.

"At least the scenery's better than in that other dump."

Cottle waved Bill towards the stairs. "We'll be fine. Go talk to the guy."

Bill had barely taken a seat in front of the heavy oak desk before Al started, eyes grave.

"I met with your wife earlier."

Bill started to bristle at the man's presumptuousness, but as Al described the conversation, he felt a small wave of relief. It was good to hear someone else echoing his concerns about her return. Maybe she would take it better from someone not so close to her.

Al's eyebrows shot up when Bill admitted that some of Laura's story was true, even as he hedged on the details. After they paused to pour fresh drinks, Al stepped out to the stairs and called Johnny to fetch Merrick from the newspaper office.

With Johnny dispatched on his errand, Al excused himself to check on Cottle and Saul. He returned to the office, smirk playing around his lips just as Merrick lumbered through the back stairs door, arms laden with books and maps, an intensely curious expression on his face.

Merrick seemed dispirited when Al shooed him back to his editor's desk with his curiosity unresolved. Bill watched as Al began opening books and unrolling maps across his desk. He didn't speak as Al arranged everything to his satisfaction, holding down corners of sepia-toned maps with a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses. Finally, he looked up at Bill and put on his reading glasses.

"I suppose an active imagination is a helpful fuckin' trait in those who work with the young. And who among us hasn't exaggerated our burdens at one time or another to garner sympathy or impress upon others the fuckin' gravity of our plight?"

He looked down at the map in front of him, then looked at Bill over the tops of his glasses. "It may be that the burdens you've not chosen to share with me have to do with some type of resettlement. Perhaps friends and family of some number have been displaced from their homes, and Mrs. Adama's...misrepresentation has more to do with fuckin' scale than veracity."

Bill bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Apparently Al had mentally knocked a few zeros off the figure Laura had given and had rearranged the facts in his head to come to a reasonable explanation. As Al called for Dan to go ask Laura to join them, Bill wondered how she would take Al's assumptions that she was partially delusional. Interesting that he was still willing to try to work out a deal. The man seemed to be a master of hedging bets.

He found himself curious as to what the professional schemer had come up with, even if he was thinking in terms of a few dozen people instead of thousands. And with his ability to look at everything with his ledger columns in mind, Bill wasn't surprised that Al was ready to discuss arrangements that, for a fee, would cover a variety of situations.

He leaned over the desk as Al picked up his pen, filled it with fresh ink, and opened his accounts book.

"Let's say, for the sake of argument, that your wife isn't a lunatic..."

By the time Dan had gone to the Grand Central Hotel and escorted a stone-faced Laura up the back stairs, Bill had started to feel a glimmer of hope. She was obviously still angry over his rash threat to remove her from office, but at least she had come.

An hour later, the two of them left, again going through the newspaper office. Bill's mood had improved enough to be courteous to Merrick as he brushed off the editor's questions. Laura had done more thinking than talking, but he reminded himself to be grateful that she was willing to think about options at all.

As Dan reassured them that Saul and Cottle would be fine, Bill and Laura headed back to the hotel for their last night in Deadwood.

Bill leaned against the dresser and watched Laura as she hung up her black and white patterned shirtwaist and skirt. The soft glow from the oil lamps hadn't changed since their first night in Deadwood; same yellow flame, same frosted glass lampshade etched with vines and flowers. It looked different tonight, and he knew it was because he was seeing it for the last time. Seeing her skin, her eyes, her hair in its glow…he was going to miss this.

Laura paused as she rolled down her stockings. Bill wondered if she had any idea how erotic her pose was, poised there with one stocking-clad foot on the bed, the white cotton ruffles of her petticoat bunched up at the top of her thigh while she undressed.

"Why aren't you getting ready for bed?"

Bill was still dressed in his denim trousers and heavy cotton shirt, boots still on. He wanted nothing more than to lock the door, strip everything off and try to love her enough to last them through their return to Galactica and whatever came after. But as she kept reminding him, they had responsibilities.

"I'm gonna check on Saul and Doc before I come to bed." He came up behind her and put light hands on her shoulders. She didn't react as he leaned towards her, his lips an inch away from her skin. He could hear her sigh as she pulled the black stocking off of her foot and shifted, starting the process on her other leg. She moved like he wasn't there at all.

"It'll just take a minute. Do you feel like waiting until I get back?"

Second stocking gone, she turned to face him, and his breath caught for a moment. She was wearing the finer-spun cotton chemise, a ribbon threaded through the lace. The corset she'd hated before she got used to it accentuated her curves even after she'd loosened the laces. The light behind her illuminated the shadowy outline of her legs through the thin white petticoat. He wished he had a camera with him. She was so pretty like this, half-dressed and her hair already down, falling over her shoulders and catching the lamplight's glow.

He'd seen her in less clothing on Galactica and Colonial One. He'd seen her in less on his visits to New Caprica. This was different.

He'd never seen her so beautiful as she was in this rough primitive town. Her healthy color was almost a taunt, reminding him of what they were going lose, starting tomorrow. His feelings must have shown in his eyes, as she nodded and returned his regretful look.

"I'll read a little more of that book of sonnets. I guess this'll be my last time of reading by an oil lamp." She smiled. "That part of being here has been nicer than I would have expected."

Bill swallowed hard and hoped that all the other parts had been nicer than expected, as well. Probably best not to go into that now. He hoped for another hour or two of denial, of pretending to be man and wife before they fell asleep and woke up as Admiral and President again.

"I'll be back before you know it." He reached out to cup her cheek in his hand, then left, closing the door quietly behind him as he went to Room 5.

.

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.

Cottle had a slight flush to his face, the whiskey poured at the Gem being smoother and easier to drink that the ship-brewed rotgut. Saul snored in the narrow bed nearest the window, oblivious.

"How's he doing?" Bill asked quietly.

"He'll be fine. The girl scraped most of the mule dung off his pants." He snorted. "At least all the shit in the street cushioned his fall. I've tried to tell him intoxication would frak with his depth perception and being aware of what's on his blind side, but…he's been in a mood since we lost your Raptor."

Bill leaned against the door, arms folded. "I'm kind of surprised you okayed him to be at the Gem."

Cottle pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from a pouch in his pocket and turned the flame in the table lamp up to light it. He took a deep drag, obviously savoring the smoke before blowing it back out.

"Have you tried these? The blond girl over there—the one who's not a prostitute, says she's kind of a friend of Laura's—gave me these. They're really good." He took another drag and stared at the embers at the tip.

"Don't change the subject, Doc. In Saul's condition—"

"In Saul's condition, capping off weeks of worry with you leaving him behind at the Raptor while we came into town, I thought blowing off some steam and getting laid couldn't hurt, and might do him some good. I'd rather see him do that than grit his teeth through his CIC shifts, then hole up in his quarters, drinking alone until it's time to do it again."

Bill sighed and looked at his snoring XO. He was sleeping on his back, supine and relaxed. Bill had come into his quarters a few times after the exodus and found him half-asleep, curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped around himself like he was seeking protection in his sleep. Maybe Cottle had a point. He didn't look as damaged now as he had when Bill saw him last. Still…

"Any concerns about disease? I mean, you saw the townspeople in the streets and saloons. Those are the girls' customer base."

"I'm going to give him a broad-spectrum antibiotic when we get back. Should knock out anything he might've picked up. I did have a chat with the local doctor while I waited, though. For what it's worth, he says he checks them every week for signs of disease. Interesting guy. Asked some questions about Saul's eye, if he'd been traumatized during the war. I kept it vague." He drew another puff and let it out slowly.

"How's she doing?" he asked.

"Now that we've actually got a plan, she seems better."

Cottle snorted. "After you quit talking about relieving her of duty, you mean."

A flush crept up from Bill's collar. "That was a mistake. I shouldn't have done that." He looked down at the rough wooden floor. "She told me I had been derelict in my duties…and she's right. I should have followed procedures for rescue."

He looked up at Cottle, uncertain. "It was just…we'd been through so much—she'd been through so much and I hadn't been able to help her then." His voice turned hard. "I broke the rules for selfish reasons. If anyone should be relieved of their position, it's me. If she feels she has to do this to feel like she's honoring her responsibilities, I don't have the right to stop her."

Cottle ground out his cigarette with a touch of wistfulness. Bill suspected there'd be a bigger pouch of native tobacco and papers carried on the trip back.

"It's a good compromise, Admiral. We're burning some fuel with the trips down, but the people who're willing to go are enjoying the rotation. They liked the feel of grass under their feet and the fresh air, and I think it helped that they all know they'd be back in the Fleet within a few hours. It's been good for morale…from my viewpoint, it's worth the tillium. Frankly, I can't imagine why that region is so empty. It's a beautiful area. Hell, I plan to do a rotation after we get back and I set up some tests for the president."

Bill watched Saul's chest rise and fall a few more times, envying him his peace at the moment. "Transportation's an issue on this world. They don't have air travel, so getting to those areas involve sailing ships over long distances. They're gonna be pretty isolated for some time."

"Well, that's the kind of thing the Quorum…the people need to hear. That, and plans for protection from the Cylons. But you and the president have got to be together on this, and the more New Caprica settlers buy into this, the better." Cottle turned to Saul's sleeping figure. "At least he's more likely to look at this favorably than he was before. Maybe getting to interact with some of the locals helped."

"I'm surprised he wanted to be with a prostitute. I guess I was expecting him to be more torn up over losing Ellen," Bill said.

Cottle knitted his eyebrows. "I think he was, in a way. The first girl your friend brought out was a pretty blonde, had long wavy hair. He didn't react well to that at all. But when he brought a different girl over, they seemed to hit it off better than I expected. I never thought he'd agree to a bath in a brothel, but she shepherded him upstairs with no problem."

"Huh. Do you remember who it was?"

His hand trying to hide a yawn, Cottle answered, "Reddish hair, a bit on the plump side. Your friend said she was experienced in dealing with 'querulous old men'."

Bill finally laughed, the first time he'd done so all day. "Dolly. Saul must have made an impression on Al…she used to be his favorite before he started his involvement with Mrs. Ellsworth."

"You sound like you put some time and effort in to getting to know these folks, Admiral. I agree the people need a voice in what happens next, but part of me really hopes that your efforts won't go to waste."

Bill opened the door and checked the hallway before he stepped out, relieved that there was no sign of Farnum to be seen.

"At least the next decision of this magnitude will be an informed decision."

The doctor nodded. "I just hope we can keep her healthy enough to be part of it."

Bill turned towards their rooms. "So say we all."

.

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.

The old man had finished his cleaning and was back in front of the mounted moose head again, standing on the landing below Bill and offering up the small pair of antlers he always had somewhere on his person. Bill looked down and realized Richardson was part of what he would miss, the soft-spoken elder with the odd intelligence that came and went.

"Mr. Adama, may I have a word with you?"

"Sure."

Bill turned down the short flight of stairs, Richardson meeting him halfway. The old man scrabbled in his deep apron pocket for a few seconds, then pulled out another small antler, rubbed smooth and forked at the top. Bill examined it, running a finger over the thin velvet coat that covered the horn.

"So small...why would anyone bother to kill such a young animal?" The light weight and delicate lines saddened him for the life lost.

"Oh, that wasn't from a kill, Mr. Adama. The young'uns shed their baby antlers, make room for new growth. You see a bunch of these in one spot, all different sizes, you know you've found a place where the herd comes back year after year." His watery eyes looked hurt. "I wouldn't give anything to Mrs. Adama with death on it. This is for regrowth and returning." His eyes cleared at Bill's slow nod.

I'll be prayin' for safe travels, Mr. Adama. For all of you."

.

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.

The lights were low in the front room and Bill had a moment of fear that she had finally gone to bed, then he saw her curled up on the loveseat under the window, book held close to the lamp as she read. Her shoulders had that soft rose-gold sheen he loved and he thought about requisitioning more candles for his quarters when they returned, maybe see if they could capture the same effect.

She looked more peaceful than she had all day. He decided the book was coming back with them.

"Everything okay?" Her voice had that little hum and he knew her mind had eased.

"Yeah. Saul...he's asleep. Cottle said the time spent at the Gem seemed to have helped." He sat down next to her on the narrow loveseat.

She marked her place in the book with a ribbon before she closed it. "Should I ask?"

"I'll save that story for when we're back on Galactica and need a break." He couldn't imagine what they would be walking back in to…weeks behind on everything and a Fleet that would want answers to all the questions about their disappearance, but he knew it'd be rough. And then thinking about her cancer coming back, watching for that…his gut clenched as he thought about the breaks they would need and probably wouldn't get.

"You ready for your last night as my wife, Mrs. Adama?" His tone was wistful as he watched her get up and start to unfasten her corset.

She kept her head turned away from him. "Bill, if you had done things like you should have, contacted Galactica, told me what was going on…if you had followed all the rules, how long would we have been here?"

He could hear the guilt in his voice as he answered. "About a week, probably. Depending on atmospheric conditions."

She looked at him then. "And in a week, we wouldn't have realized something was reversing my cancer. We would have gone back, and it would have progressed as Doctor Cottle's tests said it would."

Her eyes were glistening now. "And according to his tests, I would probably be dead by now. But I'm not, because you let your feelings overtake your rules." She slipped the chemise off of her shoulders and let it pool at her feet.

"And our people have some options today that they didn't have before, because you let your feelings get in the way," she said, as one tear traced down her cheek. She held his gaze as her fingers worked the buttons through the buttonholes on her petticoat and let it drop as well. The underdrawers soon followed.

She stood in front of him like a gilded statue of Aphrodite, her thick auburn hair curling to the tops of her breasts, her hands clasped in front of her.

"No, Bill. I'm not ready for this to be our last night. I know things will be different when we're back in the Fleet, and I know a lot of this was just pretending." She reached for his hand, and as he rose, she brought it to her lips and kissed his fingers.

"But the part that wasn't…"

He held her hands in his and brought them to his lips in turn. "The part that felt like we were really married?" he asked hesitantly.

She nodded. "I don't think I'll ever be ready for that to be over."

Her skin was warm through his clothes, and an overwhelming need came over him to be skin to skin with her.

She moved closer, trapping their clasped hands between them, her lips next to his ear as she whispered, "I think a part of me will always be 'Laura Adama', no matter what happens. No matter what we have to do for the Fleet. For as long as you'll have me."

He stepped back and held her face between his hands. Part of him wanted to stop what he was doing and go find a priest, even as he knew there were none to be found and no time to look, and he didn't know if she would have accepted it if he did. That didn't make him want it any less.

Her lips were warm and soft against his as he kissed her as gently, as softly as if they'd been in a temple. He'd never felt more married as he did right now, with this woman.

At her smile, he bent down and put his arms under her knees and back, sweeping her up until she rested against his chest. "I accept whatever part of you wants to be Mrs. Adama, with all my heart, for as long as you want me."

He caught their reflection in the dresser mirror, her looking like a primeval goddess and him looking like an old soldier playing at being the hero. If he had any sense he'd feel silly, or scared of what the future held for them both. Instead, he felt that wave of right-ness he'd caught when he first told her the truth.

"And for now, the other parts need to take a hike. Mr. Adama is ready to take Mrs. Adama to bed."

.

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.

Laura stretched out on the bed, amazed at how quickly her feelings of sadness for all that was ending had changed until she felt like a bride on her honeymoon. The morning would change things, although maybe not as much as she had feared. Even if her cancer came back as soon as she left the planet, she'd have this night, free and clear.

She watched him start to undress, noticing how trim and muscular he'd become in a few weeks. She hoped he would have time…no, _make_ time, to keep up this new hardness his body had taken on.

And not only his body.

Her gaze slipped lower as she smiled appreciatively at his hardening erection. Being together would be difficult to manage, with their schedules and being on different ships, security details, and a million other frakking things, but they'd find a way. As long as she was healthy enough to handle it, they would steal a few hours for themselves here and there, maybe carve out a night or two for themselves out of shipboard routine and spend the night in his quarters.

She was glad now that she'd told Swearengen everything, although he still seemed on the fence as to whether she had lost her mind. She supposed she owed him a debt of gratitude for forcing her and Bill both to put their cards on the table, although she suspected he had already calculated what he stood to gain from whatever happened next.

As to what had driven him to lecture her about questioning whether the prophesies really meant she had to be the Dying Leader…she'd speculate about that another time. Right now she meant to admire the lines and planes of the form of her lover…no, her _husband_, at this moment at least, before he dimmed the lamp and got into bed.

"What do you want, Laura?" he murmured near her ear as he moved over her, ending his question with a light nip to her earlobe. "Anything..." He began naming some of the things they'd tried in their too-brief sojourn in Deadwood.

"I want you to stop talking and come here." Laura pulled him down roughly until his mouth was on hers. Her tongue was dancing against his and her teeth grazed his lips and the corner of his mouth. She could feel him almost sinking into her as they kissed, and then he pulled back, as if he was afraid of matching her fervor.

_Like he was already worrying about hurting her._

She wrapped her fingers through his hair and pulled down in one long, strong steady motion, not letting up until his face was against her cheek.

"Godsdamnit, Bill, I don't know how soon I'll _have_ to ask you to be gentle, to take it easy." She was practically hissing the words and they came out hot and sharp against his neck. "While I can still take it, I want you to give me everything, as hard, as strong-"

She gasped as she felt him lay his fingers firmly over her mouth and he let some more of his weight settle on top of her body.

"Stop talking so frakking much, Roslin."

She felt everything between her legs turn liquid and lush at his words, at his insistent hardness touching her. She rolled her hips against him in silent encouragement as he growled against her skin that he was going to frak her until she couldn't walk.

He prayed he was doing the right thing, then her hips rolled again under his and he knew his prayers were answered.

A soft giggle at his ear told him she recognized his "tough guy" act for what it was. He looked down at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Too much?"

She moved against him again. "The delivery was a little over the top, but the sentiment…that was perfect." Her words trailed off into a contented hum that reverberated through him as she kissed his throat.

The scent of her skin smelled like sunshine and rose-scented soap as he trailed light kisses from her lips to her neck, sucking and biting until she gasped and tensed underneath him.

"Bill, I'm going to be back in normal clothes tomorrow. You're going to leave a—"

"Thought you didn't care."

He watched the beginnings of concern cloud her eyes and knew she was thinking of the press corps, the other politicians who would be watching her every move when they got back. Even if she stayed healthy, nothing was going to be like this again. He could feel himself start to shake as his frustration over the unfairness built, softening his erection and tingeing his vision with red at the edges.

"Oh, gods, Bill…it feels like we're back already." She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and drew a shallow sigh under his weight.

The years fell away and he was Husker again, pulling his Viper out of a downward spiral, whispering "no" under his breath as the pressure built inside him.

He pushed her hand off his shoulder and leaned back, sitting on his heels. He watched her for a second, hating how she seemed to have lost the heat she'd been burning with a few minutes ago. His thumbs brushed the valley between her breasts, moving down to her naval, her mound, then back up, past her collarbone, coming to rest at the line of her jaw.

"We're not back yet. We're right here, Laura, and I know every piece of clothing you own. You're gonna have to trust me that I won't leave any marks that'll show to anyone but us."

Her eyes grew wider as he moved his hands back down again, this time squeezing his palms over each breast almost hard enough to hurt. He watched her carefully in the flickering lamplight until he saw her nod. A low growl came from deep in his throat as he bent over her and pressed his lips to her left breast almost reverently before his mouth opened and his tongue was on the hard pebbled tip. Her fingers circled the nape of his neck as she rolled her hips again against his cock, voicing another low hum as he stiffened against her.

"You still feel like you're back to being President Roslin already?" he asked as he ran firm hands down her belly to the soft curls between her legs. She was reaching back now to grab the brass headboard, wrapping her fingers around the bars. Her whimpered "no" was all the encouragement he needed as he slipped back on the bed until he could lean forward and press rough kisses down her stomach, slowly moving towards her delicate open folds and the sensitive nub they sheltered.

She braced herself against the headboard as he slipped his hands under her ass and brought her center up to his mouth. Bucking against him as his tongue began exploring her slickness, she shivered and brought her legs up to rest on his shoulders. He felt his moustache stroke against her skin as she groaned and began moving herself against his mouth, shuddering when his tongue circled and pressed her clit. He had two fingers deep inside her when her back arched off the bed, muscles clenching in rhythmic spasms as she cried out, then fell back, legs sliding off his shoulders.

"Oh, Gods, Bill…that was…."

"Mrs. Adama…we're nowhere near done." He stroked her skin, running his fingertips over the surface of her skin until she shivered.

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"Looks like Adama's wife is in a better mood," Al said as he stood on his balcony overlooking the thoroughfare, the crisp night breeze cool on his face.

A gloved hand slipped around his waist. "I'm glad I never realized how well you could see into that room from here," Alma murmured as she leaned against him.

"Why Mrs. Ellsworth…I assure you, any knowledge I gleaned of your activities came from other sources, not by direct observation." He smiled down at the primly dressed widow.

"But the shadows indicate a reconciliation, if not the fuckin' particulars thereof, and I do have some interest in their continued ability to work together."

"Language, Mr. Swearengen, please." Alma sighed. "I confess I'll be sorry to see them leave tomorrow. Sofia quite liked Mrs. Adama. And her husband was certainly an able buffer between you and Mr. Bullock."

He nodded. "I told them I'd take the four of them up to the meadow tomorrow so they can meet some private stagecoach Adama arranged."

He kept his thoughts to himself about how the formerly friendless couple had worked out to hire a private stage without him knowing about it. Them being recently deposed leaders of some tiny unknown foreign land was his latest fanciful notion, although he kept quiet on that line of thinking so's not to have others speculating on his own mental fitness.

"You're going to drive a wagon? I don't think I've ever seen you even ride in one." There was a soft amused note in her voice that he had to admit, if only to himself, that he had come to love.

"I'll have you know I used to take my own wagon to Chicago and back regularly, to freshen my stock. Managed a team plus a gaggle of whores with no trouble at all."

"You haven't done that since I've been in camp. Will you be doing that again, at some point?" Her cool tone grated against his ears as she removed her hand from his waist.

"I'm thinkin' I'll have Dan take care of that, comes the time there's a need for it. Gettin' too old for that kind of travel."

_And it causes you some distress, which I'd avoid if I could_, he added to himself. He pulled her hand back and tucked it in the crook of his arm, gratified at her returned ease.

"The last bit of strangeness is Adama askin' me to drop 'em at the meadow, then head back to town before their transport arrives. No tellin' what kind of oddities he's wantin' to conceal."

"That is strange. Aren't you curious as to why he'd make such a request?" Alma asked.

"Nope. He's done nothing to me to make me disregard his requests for privacy, even if it does leave me wondering, in the rare moment when I have nothing else to occupy my mind.

"He's given me a fair sum of those gold coins to act as his agent in some land transactions, and I've not found him untrue in any particulars…." He shrugged. "I can live with a little mystery."

Alma looked at the clock as it chimed another hour gone. "I need to be going. I told Miss Stubbs I'd be back in a couple of hours." She glanced back at the shadows thrown up by the lamplight over at the hotel.

"My goodness…I can hardly find your statement credible that Mrs. Adama is at risk of falling deathly ill. The stamina of both Adamas seem to indicate that they enjoy the best of health."

He followed her gaze and reflected on Adama's grave concerns for his wife. "Appearances can be deceiving. Time'll tell the truth of their worries. And for what it's worth, he's leaving too much money here not to come back."

He could almost see Bill Adama striding back into town, in a year's time: determined, that air of honor and leadership about him, asking to see the results of their arrangement.

He wished his vision of Mrs. Adama, walking by her husband's side, was equally as clear.


	26. Chapter 26

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The air seemed stuffier than she remembered, the ceilings lower, the spaces a little narrower. Heads with flushing toilets and hot showers made up for some of the restricted feelings, but then there was the food…and the meetings. The endless meetings to explain, cajole, to reassure and debate.

Laura put her increased weariness down to the heavy schedule she returned to, and tried to build her weekly visits to Doc Cottle into her routine. She tried not to notice his grimness when he went over her vital signs and test results. Nothing had been found…yet.

And he added that godsdamn "yet" every time.

"Uh, Madam President?"

She came back to herself, guiltily aware that she had let her attention drift again. "Sorry, Chief. You were saying?"

He gave her a concerned look before focusing on the schematics in front of him on her desk. "As I said, we should be able to carve out some space on all of the bigger ships if we shuffle the hold contents some. Seating will be rough, but each…um…hall should be able to hold between one hundred and two hundred people, at least for a couple of hours at a time."

She nodded, rubbing her temples. "And the audiovisual part?"

Tyrol's features were schooled against the smirk she suspected he was hiding. "The press liaison had to be told it was at your direct request, but their techs said they could wire up each hall with the basics needed for presentations."

She tried to make her smile bright. "Good work, Chief. It sounds like everything's ready to go."

He began rolling up the schematics. He didn't meet her eyes as he said, "So…this looks that much better than New Caprica?"

"It's incredibly different, Chief. There's a wide variety of climates, arable land is easy to find, in many places there's enough of an infrastructure to support mechanized transportation—"

"Yes, Ma'am. I saw the first press releases. It's a nice-looking planet, and I can see the draw, but…we saw the draw in New Caprica, too."

She put her hand on his forearm. "Chief, I get your concerns, and believe me, I know others share them. I do, too. That's why we're moving very slowly on this." She was quiet for a second. "People in the Fleet, the regular people that aren't politicians or officers, they look up to you. I saw that on New Caprica before and after the Cylons came. I'm not ordering anyone off their assigned duties, but I'd appreciate it if you and Cally attended the first round of educational sessions."

He was silent as he got up and walked to the window closest to her desk and looked out at the blue and green globe below them, floating in a sea of black space. He stared down for a long moment.

"I think I can work something out, Madam President."

After Tyrol left, Laura stood by the window, staring at the planet below, unconsciously hugging herself. She was bone-tired today, feeling more ragged than usual from tossing and turning in her narrow convertible bed which seemed so spartan after the big brass bed. So lonely, too.

It had only been a few weeks. Could she have gotten that used to sleeping next to Bill so quickly that now it felt so uncomfortable to sleep alone?

Apparently so.

She traced the outline of the planet with her fingertip. Maybe one day…. She drummed her fingers impatiently against the space-tempered glass. Even if they settled, even if everything went as they hoped, the Fleet would still need its leaders. Whether they would accept married leaders or not, whether she and Bill would still want that—she coughed and winced as she thought she felt a pull in the left side of her chest.

Waving Tory in to set up for the upcoming meeting, Laura turned from the softly glowing globe below and picked up the next folder in the pile, steadfastly ignoring the increasingly frequent twinges and aches.

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The Gemenese and Saggitaron men worked together, stacking pallets piled with bolts of fabric against the wall of the converted hold. Their wives and daughters cut patterns into shapes of shirts, skirts, and plain pants, guided by the head of the new sewing guild. The third session of clothes-making instruction would begin in two hours and they wanted to have everything ready. The latest shipment of needles, thread and scissors were in boxes at the front of the room, waiting for the new arrivals.

Sarah Monroe made a last check of supplies as the first members of the latest class came in…two Caprican women and a Libran man. It felt good for her people to be seen as more than backwards-thinking fundamentalists for a change. Smiling, she greeted the new students and handed them their packets of sewing supplies.

In another converted hold on another ship, four Aerilonians and two Picons put aside their political differences to present their agreed-upon curriculum of agriculture and animal husbandry. In three weeks, another hundred members of the Fleet would come away with a rudimentary knowledge of what it would take to feed themselves in each of the climate zones being considered for settlement. Preferences had already begun forming within each class, some people longing to be near an ocean again, some looking forward to hours of sunshine and the balance of rainy and dry seasons. A few would swear they could almost feel the rhythm of four separate seasons again, each with its own tasks, demands, and rewards. In quiet corners and on breaks, people began remembering life before the attacks, when their world was more than a fleet of moving ships.

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Laura handed the folder of recon reports back to Bill. "I've had the Quorum members sort through these. So far, everyone's been willing to tag different zones as first and second choices."

He flipped through the reports, nodding at the notes in various handwritings scribbled in the margins. "Any squabbles?"

She lowered herself into her chair, a wave of fatigue hitting her unexpectedly. "Nothing I can't control. The Scorpian delegate wanted full disclosure about mineral deposits but I got the backing of the group as far as not using our technology for unfair advantage."

He raised an eyebrow. "They wanted to cherry-pick for precious metals?"

"He didn't put it that way, but yeah, that's what it sounded like." Her smile had a weary edge to it.

"Any hold-outs on settling?" He got up and poured her a glass of water without her asking. She closed her eyes for a second when his back was turned. She wasn't hiding her condition as well as she had hoped…and truth be told, she was grateful for not having to get up again.

"Not really. Everyone seems positive about the decision to learn as much as possible first, and upcoming groups seem anxious to start their assimilation training."

He handed her the water and sat down again in front of her. She toyed with the glass, watching the condensation trickle in a thin rivulet down the side. She tried to make her voice casual.

"So, what do you hear from Sharon about a split in the Cylon ranks?"

"Just that it exists. She's talked to Caprica about it some, she says. All the signs are that they'll sort this out before leaving their last location, though."

"And the rebels aren't asking for us to…back their play, as the Deadwood men would say?" She watched his eyes turn a warmer shade of blue, as they usually did when she mentioned their brief time spent there.

"No, not yet. I think they're aware of the reaction they'd get."

Silence fell over the Presidential office. Laura bit her lip as she looked at her fingernails, tinted a bluish shade near the cuticles. She curled her fingers into fists, putting the sign of illness out of sight.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Whenever it looks like you're going to need more tests, more time with Cottle, you know you're welcome to stay on Galactica."

Her lips quirked up at the corners. "You offering one of your beds again, Admiral?"

His long, drawn-out sigh told her he wanted to offer more than that. "I should be embarrassed to tell you how hard it's been to get used to sleeping alone."

She covered his hand with hers. "I know what you mean, Bill. I don't get much rest, either. But…."

"I know—I heard the rumors, too. 'The President and the Admiral shack up for a few weeks and all of the sudden, settling again is a great idea!' I thought the Quorum was trying to get the speculation under control."

"They're trying to, but they've strongly hinted that they need our discretion to keep the people focused on what matters."

Bill huffed in exasperation. "When the frak did we get to be such a distraction?"

Her laugh was lighter than she expected. Maybe her energy wasn't as depleted as she thought. "Oh, Bill, even when I was an adult, I felt so funny about my dad having a girlfriend after Mom died. Not that I thought it was disrespectful or anything, but I was afraid we girls wouldn't be his priority anymore."

"The people need to feel that the decisions being made are for the right reasons." His statement held a flat note of final acceptance.

"They do." She swiveled her chair so she was facing the curtains that concealed her increasingly uncomfortable bed. She briefly entertained the idea of a quick tryst. She wasn't feeling particularly aroused-another sign that her health was slipping-but it might push back the fear that the day was coming when she'd be too sick to enjoy him.

A sharp needle-like sensation ran through her left breast. Just a flicker, but enough to send her mind down other paths. She could forgo frakking Bill for now, but to fall asleep again while he held her close, her back against his chest, the sound of his steady breathing by her ear….

Arrangements would be made before she got too sick for even that, and that was all there was to it. The people could mind their own damn business for a night or two.

She swung back towards Bill. "Cottle wants to run some more tests tomorrow." She put some steel in her smile. "I'll bring an overnight bag, if that's all right."

Some of the tension left his eyes. "That's more than all right, Laura. That's just what I needed to hear today."

"It's a date, then." She felt a warm glow of comfort and rightness deep in her belly as she spoke. Smiling, she pulled out another folder. "While you're here, can I pick your brain about linguistics training needs?"

"Sure." He shifted his chair around to the side of her desk. Auburn and iron blended as they bent their heads together over another stack of reports.

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She didn't bother pulling the curtain between them now when it was time to put her clothes back on. One more thing that seemed like a waste of time and energy as the weeks turned into months.

"So…what do you think?" she asked as she buttoned her blouse.

Cottle patted his pockets for his pack of cigarettes, frowning as he came up empty. "I think what I thought after the last round of tests. The cancer's still advancing. And I think—again—that you're ignoring that your previous remission occurred when the cancer was in an earlier stage."

She didn't meet his eyes. "If it's meant to work, it'll work. You said it didn't matter what stage it was in."

His bushy white eyebrows pulled together. "What I said was, I couldn't find any markers that indicated there was a point past which the environment wouldn't have an effect. Which is not the same Godsdamn thing, and you're smart enough to…." He stopped speaking and studied her expression like he was trying to see into her brain.

Sighing, he gave her a defeated look. "You're trying to fit the prophesy, aren't you? Trying to cut it as close as you can to being the "dying leader".

She didn't try to deny it.

"There's still so much do get done. The last scouting party's report hasn't been analyzed yet, we're two transcripts behind on the Quorum meeting reports…." Her voice sounded reedy to her ears. Angry tears welled up as she realized he was right about her delaying, even if he was wrong about the reasons. One bright teardrop refused to be blinked away and began tracing a wet track down her cheek.

"You can delegate that to someone else for however long it takes to—" He broke off as another tear slipped down her thin, stoic face.

"Madam President?"

"What if it doesn't work, Sherman? What if I'm going down there to…just die, and leave everything unfinished?"

"Hang on." He left the examining room. She listened as he went to his desk and noisily rummaged through the drawers. She could smell the fresh smoke before he came back into the narrow space. She waited for him to take another deep, steadying drag before he spoke again.

"I wish Elosha was still alive."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm no priest, and I'm not going to even try to interpret Pythia, but if that does happen…you go down there, and whatever activated the Cylon antibodies before doesn't work, then, you've literally fulfilled the prophecy, haven't you?"

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, but…."

"And the prophecies don't say that everything fell apart because the dying leader died."

"No, you're right," she said. "It sounded like the tribes continued to settle on Earth."

He sucked down another lungful of smoke. "So, worst case scenario, you go down there, there's no miracle this time, and you die breathing fresh air and holding his hand, knowing that the plans you've put into place will continue." He studied the smoldering tip. "I've seen worse deaths."

"And I've no reason to think that your remission in that environment was a one-time affair," he continued." He glanced over at the projections and test data. "I don't recommend pushing this past four weeks, though. It makes sense to get on down there while your other systems are still functioning adequately."

"I guess we'll know pretty quickly if it works again or not." She got up slowly, wincing at the grinding feeling in her joints. The weight loss was taking its toll everywhere.

"Talk it over with the Admiral when you get back to his quarters, Madam President. He's part of this, too."

She nodded and turned to leave. She could feel his gaze on her thin shoulders, sharp under her jacket.

"Uh…before you go, do you need any more lubricant?" His voice was quiet, barely audible over the rattling and thrumming of sickbay noise.

She stopped short, more tears threatening. She wiped them away with a resigned swipe of her finger. "That won't be necessary, Doctor."

She had tried to take advantage of her excuse to stay in Bill's quarters, calmly asking for whatever would help her hold onto what remained of her normal responses. An energy booster, a libido enhancer, lubricant to replace what her body no longer provided naturally.

She had given up over two weeks ago. By tacit agreement, they didn't try anymore, but went to sleep, her folded into his gentle embrace as she drifted off to the sound of his heartbeat. They both pretended to ignore his midnight trips to the head or the drink stand as he sought one form of relief or another.

A gruff "I'm sorry, Laura," came from behind her.

"Thanks, Sherman."

_So am I._

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The two men faced each other, separated by language, culture, and the old scarred oak desk.

_God bless enlightened self-interest and a lack of the English tongue._ Al sketched out more pictograms on the wide sheet of paper between himself and Mr. Wu. The blank spaces quickly filled with charcoaled arrows and roads and railroad tracks. Another paper lay shoved to one side, the fading charcoal sketch of the buildings in Chink Alley having served its purpose weeks ago. As Chinamen wanted to congregate within their own community, the drawing suggested, so might other strangers want to congregate in a community of their own.

Mr. Wu had added an unfamiliar word to _bok wai lo_ when he had pointed to the stick figure with red curls and a skirt and the other, larger figure in blue pants and shirt.

"Yeah, they're not exactly _bok wai lo_, are they? 'White devil' might fit her well enough, though that's for her husband to say, I suppose, but Adama always struck me as being part Mexican or Italian or some such."

"A-da-ma." Wu's voice had been rough around the unfamiliar word.

"Yeah, him and others like him, I guess. Their family, maybe."

Wu huffed in disagreement then, leaving Al to wonder again how much English Wu really understood. The heavy-set Chinese boss shook his head and sketched figure after figure, then flashed his fingers in a sign of "too many to count."

Al remembered the Adama woman's tale of thousands and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess it's more than a family."

"_'dama buluo_," Wu grunted.

With an impatient sigh, Al drew a circle around the figures now clustered next to the Adamas.

"Yeah, _dama buluo_. Why the fuck not, hm? Whatever that means."

At the end of a charcoaled road, he sketched a grassy meadow, then added a wavy stream. Wu mumbled and nodded as Al added a small cluster of houses.

Within twenty-four hours of Al handing Mr. Wu a small bag of odd-shaped gold coins, minus ten percent for himself, the first wagon of Chinese workmen, shovels, and lumber-cutting supplies headed up to the far meadow. If any of them wondered who or what the "Adama tribe" was, they kept it to themselves. The weather was pleasant, the work was easier than working on railroads, and they had all seen white men do stranger things than build houses where there were no people to live in them.

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	27. Chapter 27

**Part 27: A stranger comes into Deadwood with a message for Al Swearengen: the Adamas have returned...and they could use some help.**

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Spring was best observed up here, away from the slimy muck of the thoroughfare. As long as he ignored the light stench wafting up towards the balcony, Al could take some enjoyment out of the rampant green of new foliage against the dark blue-black of the old-growth pines covering the hills. Spring had officially started a month ago, but he marked his own spring by the first day he could come out here without a coat for his morning coffee.

Cup in hand, he noted the vendors setting up their stands by their tents, baskets full of potatoes, onions, turnips and cabbages held over from winter. Bullock and Star Hardware had their doors standing open, already started on the day's trade. Wagons laden with bricks came in from the Sturgis Road, brought in by rail from the brickyards in the East. For the first time in several years, the scent of new-cut wood and fresh sawdust mixed with less pleasant odors to form an aroma that smelled like progress.

He was in the middle of mentally calculating if there were enough new workers in Deadwood to expand his stable of whores when a figure walking into town from Spearfish Road caught his eye. He set aside his figuring and leaned over the railing for a closer look. Something seemed out of place with this dude. The figure stopped and scanned storefronts, finally looking at the banner hanging from the railing, and then up at him. He wasn't surprised when the figure made a beeline towards the Gem. He slurped down the dregs of his coffee and went to find his coat.

The expected knock came as he seated himself at his desk.

"Yeah." The word was barely out of his mouth when Dan opened the door.

"Boss, you ain't gonna believe who's just sent a message for you," Al's burly right-hand man said as he walked in.

Al thought about the precise, almost military swagger of the dude walking into town. He had come in from the road that eventually led to a path ending in a high meadow. He put two and two together and feigned a casual look.

"Wouldn't happen to be Bill Adama, would it?" He smiled at the crestfallen expression on Dan's face.

"Uh, yeah. Just come in, had a note for me to bring up here." He cocked his head and gave Al a puzzled look. "How'd you figure that out? Been almost a year since we last seen him and his wife."

"I got eyes in my head, don't I? Watched that fella stroll in off the Spearfish Road whilst I was having my coffee." He gave Dan a faint smirk. "I thought that gait looked familiar, and something about the bearing reminded me of Adama.

"Observation, Dan." He tapped his temple. "When you get your own joint, you gotta observe everything, figure out what things mean before the other guy. Only way to get ahead."

Dan returned his smirk as his features took on an air of cockiness. "Did your keen observation tell you anything else about Adama's messenger?"

Before he could answer, he heard quick footsteps coming to his door, accompanied by an unfamiliar voice.

"I'm not trying to be rude here, but I need an answer like, today."

Al stared at the woman dressed in dun-colored trousers, chambray shirt, and unusual-looking black boots. She had walked through his open door like she had every right to be there.

"Who the fuck might you be?" he said, shooting a glare at a still-smirking Dan.

"Adama told me to get a message to you about transport into town. Is this going to take long?" The woman raised an eyebrow at Dan.

"You'll kindly direct your fucking questions to me, first answering the one I put to you before anybody does anything. Now, who the fuck are _you_?"

She was practically quivering with energy, looking like she wanted to drag Dan out and make him produce transportation by brute force.

"I'm Kara Thrace. I…work for Ad—Adama."

As she spoke, Al realized there was worry in her eyes, maybe even a touch of panic. He reached for his bottle of good liquor and a handful of glasses.

"Sit the fuck down and drink this. You're jumpiness is playing on my fuckin' nerves." He poured as he talked, handing her a glass of Kentucky's best and taking one for himself before pouring for Dan. She slammed it down like she'd had a lot of practice. He cocked an eyebrow in inquiry and she nodded for him to pour a refill. He thought carefully about how to phrase his next question.

"So, Miss Thrace, how many will need transport from the meadow, as I surmise that's the pertinent location?"

"Just two." She stared at her glass before downing it in one shot again.

He looked over at Dan."Get a couple of horses from the livery, take 'em out to the high meadow the Adamas bought."

"No." The woman looked uneasy as she shook her head. "It needs to be a wagon. Something that a person could lie down in."

Al could hear Adama's words from the past summer echoing in the room.

His voice was a touch kinder as he asked, "Will that be on Mrs. Adama's account?"

"Yeah. She's—" The woman looked away and blinked a couple of times before meeting his eyes again. "She's sick."

His black eyebrows drew together as he lowered his voice. "Sick in the way she suspected—they both suspected—she'd become if they returned?"

_If I go back, there's something there that will make me sick…that'll kill me. _

"Yeah. She's pretty bad." Her shoulders slumped a little as she spoke.

He downed another shot himself. "Dan, get a wagon—a buckboard, from the livery. Bring it around back." He slammed the glass down. "Fuck me if I don't believe the _last _time I drove a wagon was on their account as well."

He pulled out a roll of bills and peeled off a few, handing them to Dan. "Tell General Fields I'm payin' for a week in advance, and I want the steadiest ride he's got."

Dan took the money and left the office, sparing a final glance at the blond woman in men's clothes.

"I've got to put some things away, lock up before I leave. Why don't you continue this," Al nodded at the glasses, "at the bar and make yourself comfortable? If you've a mind for company, there's a whoremistress down the thoroughfare who might have knowledge of them that cater to those with a fondness for their own sex."

Kara Thrace snorted and finally grinned. "I, uh…I'm actually into guys, but thanks for the suggestion."

"Oh." He frowned. "Refrain from approaching my payin' customers, then, as I'd not have my whores come up short on account of an amateur's competition."

He was met with an eye roll as he went to the door. "Gods, you're just like he described you."

Al realized he'd almost come to miss the little oddities of the Adamas' speech. "After you, Miss, or Sir, or whatever fuckin' honorific you prefer."

"'Sir' works for me, Mr. Swearengen."

"I'm fuckin' thrilled to hear it. Now let's get you squared away at the bar while I go fetch the Adamas."

He walked behind her down the stairs, calling to Johnny to put her liquor on Adama's tab.

"The Adamas are back?" He gave the woman in a trail-hand's clothes a doubtful look.

"Just pour for that one, huh? I'll be back in a couple of hours."

He strode out the back to the black buckboard, Dan waiting with the reins in his hand. Al swung himself up to the seat with a groan and took the reins, wondering why the blond woman's eyes had briefly crinkled with mirth every time he mentioned 'the Adamas'. Ignoring the curious looks from the hoopleheads in the street, he headed the team towards Spearfish Road and the Adamas' meadow.

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The wooden steps and front porch were attractive, in their way…well-crafted and sturdy, every angle true, every line plumb, as was the rest of the house. Clean-lined and unpainted, the grain of the wood showed through, the boards just beginning to show the first signs of weathering. Bill thought he would have enjoyed examining the workmanship, if the circumstances had been different.

As it was, he had noticed the lack of comfortable surfaces more than anything else, setting up a couple of tarps and blankets on a springy bed of tall grass near the first of the houses. A tarp slung over a tree branch overhead provided some shade. He paced some more of the grasses down around them, sinking to his knees when the blanket-wrapped woman seemed too still for his liking.

"Laura? How you doing?"

Her puffy eyelids fluttered and she took a second to focus on his face. She smiled wanly, her cheeks creasing like tissue paper.

"I'm…about as well as can be…expected, Admiral." A dusty-sounding chuckle came from her throat.

"Do you want some more water? A protein bar?" His instinct to do something, _anything,_to ease her discomfort warred with his rational mind telling him all they could do was wait.

_Wait to see if the environment would kick-start her Cylon blood properties again._

He almost wished he had been the one to walk into town, just to feel he was taking some kind of action. Shifting to lie by her side, he gently pulled her head onto his chest, and knew this was the best place for him right now.

"It looks wonderful, Bill."

He followed her line of sight, taking in again the sight of the semi-circle of neat, two-story houses built around a common area. There was a space containing a large community well, with several hitching posts on either side of a long horse trough. The ground between the front yards and the commons had been hard-packed into a smooth road, not yet churned into a muddy mire by hooves and wagon wheels.

At the far edge of the circle, a narrower path cut off to the east. It led to a sturdy-looking dock standing over a crystal-clear lake that reflected prisms of light off its surface. A wooden structure had been built at the end of the dock: curving crosspieces that swooped up at the ends, resting on pillars painted a bright glossy red. It reminded Bill of pergolas he had seen in fancy water gardens on Caprica, and he wondered again about the connections between this Earth and home.

He turned to her, sweeping the lank auburn hair away from her cheek as he began to share his observations. "Laura, did you see-" Her closed eyes silenced him, and he moved his face close enough to hers to assure himself once again she was still breathing.

The edge of something hard poked his leg as he moved. He looked down to see the cover of _Searider Falcon_ on the blanket between them. He moved it closer to her hand as he stared at the first house in the grouping. Shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, he tried to get a glimpse of the interior through the bay windows next to the front porch. All he could see was the reflection of the black hills and forests rising behind them, seemingly going on forever. He wondered what the hills would look like from inside the tidy house.

The meadow they had built in had a gentle slope to it, the hills falling away to the east in the distance. If the nearest house was their home, they'd be greeted with a sunrise every clear morning, maybe shining into their kitchen as they had their breakfast. He'd have to point that out later, see if that would be something she'd like.

The house at the end of the semi-circle was closest to the small lake, though. She might prefer that, being close to the water. Laura had talked about building near a lake once. He could still see her face, lit up with the image of the home she'd built in her mind down on New Caprica.

"You need to get better," he whispered. "I'm gonna need your help to pick the right place."

A tiny figure in the distance grew to a four-seated buckboard, a sturdy dray horse in the traces and a scowling Al Swearengen holding the reins. Bill gently moved his shoulder from under Laura's head, replacing it with a pack before he stood. As she stirred, he said, "Our ride's here."

She nodded and tried to sit up. She grimaced with effort as she braced herself with one hand on the springy grass, arm trembling. He put his arm around her.

"Easy, Laura, take it easy. Relax until I get the wagon packed."

Her grateful nod as she eased back down shot another crack through his heart. Even a week earlier she would have ignored him and gotten up. Probably would have given Swearengen a formal welcome, even if five minutes speaking on her feet now meant thirty minutes resting, trying to get her strength back.

This morning he had helped her into the blouse and skirt she had last worn in Deadwood. He hadn't bothered with the corset: even tied with no space between the lacing, it would have fallen down to her hips. The looseness of her clothes was one more sign of the toll her illness had taken. The ring he had bartered for (to add to their cover, he had told her at the time, and she had just smiled) was just barely staying on her finger, her fist curved protectively around it.

Al nodded a somber greeting, unsmiling as he got down from the wagon and walked towards them. Bill could read the pity that flashed across the other man's face and a wave of resentment ran through him at the hopelessness it implied.

"Adama, Mrs. Adama." He spoke formally, giving Laura a respectful nod.

The spark of pleasure Bill got from hearing "Mrs. Adama" again more than made up for any ill feelings created by unwelcome sympathy.

"Thanks for coming to pick us up."

"Don't look like walkin' in would be a fuckin' option this time."

"No." Bill glanced down, and remembered how boldly they had strolled into Deadwood a year ago. "Not this time." He bent and lifted Laura in his arms until she was snuggled against his chest.

""Good to…see you again…Mr. Swearengen." She gave him a thin smile.

"Wish it were under better circumstances." He approached the couple, face drawn with concern. Glancing at Bill as if asking permission, he reached out and brushed back a strand of her hair that had fallen over one eye.

"This cocksucker not been takin' care of you? I could arrange an accident to befall him, if you like." He smiled, and his tone was as gentle as if he were talking to a child.

Her faint chuckle reverberated against Bill's chest. "My condition is…my own fault, but…" her head eased back against his shoulder. "…thanks for the offer." This time the faint laugh turned into coughing that shook her body while Bill held her tight.

"Let's get her settled," Al said. "There's a pallet of sorts in the bed of the wagon. I don't see her making the trip upright, but we can stop outside of town if she wants to sit on the back bench to make her entrance."

Bill carried her over to the wagon and looked into the bed. There were a couple of bedrolls and blankets spread out that looked adequate. He gently lifted her into the buckboard and arranged her as comfortably as he could. Laura touched his cheek as he tucked the blanket around her shoulder.

"I think I'm feeling…better already."

Her tired smile sent another crack through his aching heart as he stepped down to get their packs. When he looked up, he saw Al glaring at him as he held the horse's bridle.

"Hope I ain't goin' through all this trouble just to turn around and have to help you bury her." His tone was too quiet for Laura to hear him. At least, Bill hoped so.

"That makes two of us." He slung their packs into the wagon. When he started to get in the back,beside her, Laura held up a shaky hand.

"I'm fine, Bill. Why don't you ride up by Mr. Swearengen?"

He examined her carefully, noting with relief that she seemed to be breathing a little easier. He tried to tell himself not to give in to wishful thinking, but it almost looked like her skin had lost a little of the deadly pallor she had carried for the past several days. Finally he nodded in agreement and got up in the seat next to Swearengen.

"Where've you been traveling, that's made her so fuckin' sick anyway?"

"Different places."

Al snorted as Bill twisted in his seat to keep an eye on Laura, lying a few inches below him. He didn't fully understand the effects of the atmosphere on her Cylon antibodies-he wasn't positive that even Cottle fully understood it-but it wasn't just wishful thinking.

_It couldn't be._

"She do what she needed to do for her people?"

"She did." He lowered his voice. "Even with what it cost her." He cleared his throat as he felt his eyes prick with tears. "She's been incredibly strong."

"Hope you two didn't leave it too late. That state"—he nodded at her still form—"that's gonna take a lot to come back from, looks like to me. You got your doctor handy…that Cottle fellow? Or will you be wantin' Doc Cochran to look in on her?"

Bill smiled at the note of concern hidden in the gruff words. "Cottle will be joining us soon."

"Well, for Christ's sake, make your arrangements to rent enough rooms as soon as you set foot in the hotel. I got enough on my plate without dealin' with E.B.'s fuckin' vapors, thinkin' you're chiseling on the rates."

"I'll take care of it." He turned to look back at the neat, vacant settlement as they left it behind. "The place looks good. I like the dock set up like it is."

"Got Wu to thank for that. Took a notion to have his men add that foreign-lookin' frill to the end of the dock…looks like something from his homeland, I suppose."

He looked back at the red pergola at the end of the dock, then looked down at their passenger, thoughtful expression on his face. "Folk bein' so far from home, not likely to see it again…they'll try to hang on to that which reminds them of what they left behind."

They rode along in silence as the tall pines cast their cool shadow over the trail, the sunlight breaking through the trees in bright streaks of gold. Bill felt the tension he'd been carrying around for weeks start to ebb out of his shoulders as he watched Laura turn her head this way and that, taking in the sight of trees, earth and sky. Al had just started asking about Kara and her background when he felt Laura tug at his arm.

"Look!" she whispered, pointing up at the sky.

He looked where she directed as Al pulled the wagon to a stop. A brown and black bird, its wingspan at least a half-meter across, soared over their heads, circling over the settlement. As they watched, it swooped down low over the water, then climbed again, finally perching on the curved pergola for a second before unfolding its wings once more and taking off back into the sky. Its white underbelly flashed as it flew back over them and disappeared above the trees.

"Huh. Don't see many of those this far into the Black Hills." Al slapped the reins lightly against the horse's broad back and they began moving again.

"What was that?" Laura's tone was the liveliest it had been in days, and Bill felt a rush of gratitude towards the huge bird that had seemed to give its blessing to their new home.

Al looked back at Laura again, then spoke low enough so only Bill could hear him.

"Looks like she's taken a step or two back from death's door already."

In a louder voice, he answered Laura's question. "That's a prairie falcon, Mrs. Adama. Rare, but not unheard of, to see them around here. Must've been lookin' for a safe place to rest for a while."

Bill watched as Laura ran a finger over the embossed cover of the book still pushed into her blanket and smiled."We'll need a name for the settlement, Ad—Mr. Adama."

"Do you have something in mind, Mrs. Adama?" He had missed the warm thrill of calling her "Mrs. Adama" more than he'd realized.

"I do. What do you think of 'Falcon's Rest'?"

Her fingers traced the letters of _Searider Falcon_, and he thought he could see a touch of color beginning to come to her cheeks. He reached down to hold her hand, lacing his fingers with hers, their rings clinking together.

"I like the sound of that."

She brought their clasped hands to her cheek and smiled up at him.

"So say we all."

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	28. Chapter 28

**Deadwood is surprisingly good for one's health, at least in one particular case...and the fledgling community outside of town is certainly good for business.**

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Bill sat on the back seat of the swaying buckboard, holding Laura steady as she sat by his side. He saw a few curious gazes from the townspeople crossing their path, but most took one look at Swearengen's glowering face, ducked their heads back down, and went about their business. If anyone wondered about what had gotten the saloon owner out and about, they kept it to themselves.

Seeing Laura sitting up a little straighter lightened Bill's heart. It seemed like some strength was already returning. He was almost ready to accept that it wasn't just euphoria at being off the ship…something really did seem to be changing.

"It feels like we've been away longer than a year, doesn't it? So much has changed." Laura turned her head this way and that, taking in the new brick buildings, the beginnings of a second row of houses on a new street that had been scrubland last year.

Al glanced around as well, as if seeing Deadwood with fresh eyes today. "Got the fuckin' fire to thank for that. Couple months after you left, whole fuckin' place burnt down to the ground. Good thing your husband suggested splitting up the blastin' powder, or Boot Hill would've needed one hell of an expansion."

Bill and Laura exchanged shocked looks. The town looked a little cleaner, maybe, than it had been, and quite a bit larger, but so much was unchanged. Even the Gem, now coming into view, looked the same, down to the sun-faded banner hanging from the balcony.

"The Gem looks the same as it used to," Bill observed.

"Yeah, I still had the original plans in my safe…along with my insurance policy. Hell, I was up and runnin' a week later. Lots of tired,thirsty workingmen in need of an evening's recreation."

With an audible sigh of relief, Al pulled the wagon up to the hitching post. Bill watched Dan Dority cross the street to take over the reins before the wagon had come to a full stop.

"Get the Adamas' bags and take 'em up to their room. I trust E.B. won't mind your assistance."

Dan reached in the back of the wagon and grabbed the packs. Bill couldn't help but notice the sudden sadness in his eyes as he saw Laura's condition.

"Good to see you back, Adama, Mrs. Adama." He cast a worried look at Al before heading into the hotel.

"Bill, I can walk on my own, I think," Laura said as Bill swung himself out of the seat and onto the muddy street.

"You're saving your strength, Mrs. Adama. There's two flights of stairs ahead, remember?" He held out his arms. She hesitantly braced herself against his shoulder as she let him take her into his arms.

"I feel ridiculous."

"Look at that…you two look like a couple of fuckin' newlyweds." Bill looked for the smirk he expected to find, but Swearengen looked almost admiring…maybe even a touch envious. He glanced past Laura's shoulder at the glass doors of the Bank of Deadwood and wondered if Al and the widow were still an item.

"You know, it really does feel good to be back. And I'm not just talking about my health." Laura smiled as Richardson opened the hotel doors wide.

She was warm and already feeling a little less brittle in his arms, although his rational mind told him it was probably too soon to see any real changes.

"Oh dear, Mr. Adama…I trust your wife isn't ill with anything contagious! If she's in need of extra quiet to convalesce from whatever's befallen her, I can arrange to have the adjacent rooms kept empty…for a not unreasonable fee, of course." The weaselly E.B. Farnum hadn't changed, either, Bill reflected.

"Of course, if there is a risk of contagion, and Doc Cochran advises closing the hotel down, we'd need to discuss adequate recompense, but I—"

"E.B." Al's voice had turned more gravelly that usual.

"Yes, Al?"

"Shut the fuck up and let these folks get settled in."

E.B. went back to polishing his hotelier's desk, grumbling under his breath.

Bill began carrying his…well, she did feel like his bride, in a way…up the stairs. Dan was ahead of them, swinging the door open as they reached the upper hallway. Laura's face lit up as they walked in and saw the furnishings that were still familiar after a year. The loveseat, the washstand with its flowered basin and pitcher…and the big brass bed, sparkling with reflected sunlight. The closest thing they'd ever had to a marriage bed.

He held that promising thought in his head as he laid her down gently in the center of the counterpane.

"Welcome back," she whispered.

He didn't have to ask what that meant. For however long they had, they were back where they'd been husband and wife. Even fraught with worry, it was a good feeling.

"You, too, Mrs. Adama. You, too."

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By the next day, Laura could walk, unassisted, to the privy.

After another three days, Mrs. Marchbanks swore she'd never seen such a fine appetite for her cooking from a woman the size of Mrs. Adama.

The day after that, she held down the first shot of Kentucky bourbon she'd had in a year.

By the end of the week, she had commandeered Trixie from a gracious Alma Ellsworth to help her go through furniture catalogues. Ink wells were drained as they wrote up furniture orders for the houses in the new settlement.

The blustering one-eyed drunk came into town after the first week, substantially more sober and subdued that he'd been in his first visits. He and the boisterous mannish-dressed blond woman squabbled and sniped at each other over drinks in the Gem, but managed to get along reasonably well as they combed through back issues of the _Black Hills Pioneer_, borrowing particular issues from a puzzled but accommodating A.W. Merrick. If the editor wondered why certain issues held more value than others, particularly if they held news of mining strikes and expansion in South America, Canada, and Australia, he kept his speculations between himself and Al.

Merrick had balked at the request of Mr. Adama to borrow his cherished atlas, though, until Al had raised an eyebrow at him and pulled a handful of bills from his pocket.

"Here's forty bucks, fuckin' Merrick. Buy two more and quit wringing your fuckin' hands over a fuckin' book. Jesus Christ…you'd think you wrote it yourself with a fuckin' quill pen."

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The Adamas had begun a ritual of taking an evening constitutional after the last meal of the day. Dodging miners, vendors and drunks, they walked from one end of Deadwood to the other, pausing at the less congested end to look up into the night sky.

Al was marking their progress out of habit from his balcony perch when he heard his office door open after a delicate tap. At some point over the past year—he couldn't quite pinpoint when—Alma had stopped waiting for him to answer before turning the knob. It was like she was certain she wouldn't find one of the girls sucking his prick.

The thought crossed his mind that he might need to have one of the whores service him at a likely hour, just to keep the Widow Ellsworth on her toes. Then he caught the combined scent of fresh-brewed tea and the lily-of-the-valley fragrance she wore, and the thought fled as quickly as it had come.

He watched through the doorway as she set the small tray down on his desk. Picking up two cups, she gracefully walked out onto the balcony.

"I thought I'd save Jewel the trouble and you the wait," she said, handing him his cup.

"You been doing that regular-like. This becomin' a habit?" He took the cup and turned back to the street scene before him.

Joining him at the rail, Alma looked down at the busy thoroughfare. "Do you mind if it has?"

He glanced at her as she sipped her tea. "I've seen you with worse habits. This one's all right with me, for what that's worth."

She followed his gaze to the Adamas. "She's looking very well, isn't she? I can hardly believe that's the same woman I saw arriving a few weeks ago."

"Still down by about fifteen pounds or so, looks like to me. Hair seems to have picked back up some shine, though, and her color's improved." He turned at the surprised, but still ladylike snort.

"What? I've been evaluatin' women's conditions and fitness since you were a babe in arms."

"Oh, yes, I'm well aware of that. I just wonder how Mr. Adama would like you grading his wife like she was in a cattle show."

"Adama's so fuckin'—so happy she's regainin' her health, I doubt he'd care about my observations, which, I'll thank you to keep in mind, were made with no ill or improper intent." He took a final sip of the tea, draining the cup.

"And speakin' of observations, have you ever seen two people more fascinated with the moon and stars? They do this every night, since she's been up and around."

"I think it's sweet. They do still act like newlyweds, don't they?"

"Such would be the evidence I see in the shadows against their window shade, yeah." His smirk flashed, then faded. "I can tell you this, Alma. I wouldn't have put any money on her recovery when I saw her that first day. Adama's still not been forthcoming with what was wrong with her, but I thought it was over save for the last vigil." He studied Alma's classic profile in the moonlight and was suddenly fiercely glad she'd stubbornly clung to health and life, even when it had inconvenienced his business interests that first year.

"I've wondered if perhaps it was lung disease, and the altitude is helping, but felt it rude to ask, and—oh, I didn't realize their doctor friend was in town as well." She nodded down towards the man with the shock of white hair who had just come out of the hotel.

"Yeah…Cottle. He's been meetin' with Doc Cochran of an evening. Doc says he's a strange bird…seems highly skilled in some areas, ignorant of the basics in others."

"My goodness, if Doctor _Cochran_ is calling him 'strange'…." She shook her head.

"Makes you wonder how many graves Cottle robbed in his day," Al said, grinning. He took her cup from her and walked back in his office, nodding at her to close the door behind them.

"How's the furniture business goin'?"

"Fine, I think. Mr. Adama has made another substantial deposit into his account to cover their orders. Apparently he's acting as treasurer for his group. The homes in Falcon's Rest should be well-furnished and livable within another month."

He took a seat behind his oak desk and pulled out his ledger as Alma looked over his shoulder.

"They buyin' local or orderin' from back east?"

"Whenever they can purchase locally, they do. They seem to want the homes ready as quickly as possible."

The lily-of-the-valley scent drifted down to his nose, enriched by her skin scent underneath. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close until the side of her satin-clad breast was against his cheek. He sighed and closed his eyes.

"Startin' to see the appeal of this 'home' business myself."

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The summer lightning was particularly bad that year, personal journals would later record. Folk kept waiting for fire alarms to be sounded from the direction of Falcon's Rest. Luckily, the residents seemed to be an unusually fortunate lot. Although sheet lightning seemed to favor their little corner of Dakota Territory, and although they had their share of deadwood that ran as dry as tinder, they never seemed to suffer the expected wildfire.

Or maybe they had fires here and there and handled it themselves. Nice folks, the consensus of thought was, but tended to be on the clannish side, coming to town to buy what they needed, have a drink, a game or a woman from time to time, and generally minding their own business.

If anyone noticed that there seemed to be quite a wide variety of faces coming and going from the small settlement, they kept it to themselves. "Asking stupid questions of a personal nature" was still a common cause of death in Deadwood.

A.W. Merrick began a weekly run of his newspaper up to Falcon's Rest. Apparently every man, woman and child were avid readers of the _Black Hills Pioneer_, judging from the number of copies requested.

General Fields hired on an extra driver so that the new community could have reliable coach service between their part of the Black Hills and the nearest railroad depot.

And the nearest river.

And the nearest coach line.

His new hire tried to tell him the impossibility of so many different travelers coming out of one small settlement, but the General put a stop to that chatter. No good ever came from his folks openly questioning other folks' business. Especially if they gave the impression they might have something to hide. And the Adamas had never been anything but decent to him. At times he thought they might be running some kind of underground railroad, like was done in years past. Other times, he didn't think about it at all, other than the increase in business was mighty nice.

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The young man stood out from the crowd of passers-by more by virtue of being relatively dust-free and clean-shaven than any strangeness of dress or manner. What dust there was on his trousers and shirt was newly kicked up; the kind that would blow off in the next September breeze. Dirt hadn't been ground into his clothes and skin yet. The lack of stubble on his taut jaw line said he'd had access to a razor, mirror and hot water before walking in to town.

Which put him as being from Falcon's Rest. Only explanation for it, Al thought, as he drank his morning cup of coffee on the covered front porch.

"Hey! You there," he called, putting his cup on the railing and walking down the front stairs. He modified his usual glower as he glanced to either side out of habit. He still felt like he was breaking some kind of societal rule in dropping by the Ellsworth home for his morning coffee.

The man stopped in the thoroughfare, as if to make sure Al was talking to him, giving him a careful once-over before coming to the front walkway.

Al returned the look. Something about this guy seemed familiar….

"Haven't seen you around town before. Of course, I'm not as good at keepin' up with everybody's comin's and goin's as I used to be…you in town on business or pleasure?"

The young man raised an eyebrow, then gave Al a smile that made him look even younger. "I'm looking for Al Swearengen…and I think I just found him."

Black eyebrows drawn down, Al gave him another careful look under the glower. Didn't quite have the smell of a process server…and then he got a good look at the eyes. Dark blue, like the fuckin' Atlantic.

"You're kin to Bill Adama, I bet."

The man nodded. "I'm Lee Adama. He's my father."

"Is that a fact?" He turned and nodded gravely to the woman standing at the front door of the well-built two story house.

"Let's walk over to my place of business, son, hm? Don't want to overstay my welcome here." He clapped a broad hand on Lee's shoulder and steered him on down the thoroughfare, as Alma and Sofia, the latter laden down with school books, stepped out onto the porch steps and headed in the other direction.

"My father asked me to—"

"No business conducted in the street, if you're to have dealin's with me. 'Nice weather for this time of year', what's playin' at the local theater, where can a man find an honest game of chance, is the most I'd have you say out here amongst the hoopleheads and fuckin' unknowns."

If Lee noticed that the townspeople gave the two of them a wide berth, he didn't remark on it.

"So, how's your mother doin'? Haven't seen her in a while." He was just making conversation and the confused look that passed over young Adama's face gave him pause.

"The…she's not my mother. But she's fine." He tried to hide a smirk. "My father's wife is fine."

_Bet there's a back story there._

"And your father?"

He looked away. "He's staying busy. They both are."

Al nodded. "Well, this is my joint." He watched Lee Adama take in the rough men at the open front doors, the half-dressed whores flirting off his balcony under Dan's watchful eye, and the banner declaring that this was "The Gem Saloon" hanging off the railing. He ushered him into the raucous interior.

"You bein' Adama's son, your first drink, faro game, and piece of pussy's on the house. Johnny over at the bar'll run you a tab. Drink's fifty cents, faro table starts at a dollar, regular fuck's five dollars, ass-fuck's seven."

He gave Lee Adama a broad grin. "Welcome to fuckin' Deadwood."

He pushed Lee back by reflex as yelling began further down the bar, followed by the meaty sound of punches being caught by flesh. A chair was kicked over, cards flying, as Johnny got the shotgun out from behind the counter. The press of people around the bar made it impossible to make out who the fighters were.

Al shook his head and walked Lee around the throng to the stairs going up to his office.

"Can be combative..."

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The young man settled in Al's guest chair, looking around curiously as if trying to match up his observations of Al's office with the descriptions his father would have given him. That the descriptions had been thorough was confirmed when young Adama tensed upon Al reaching towards his bottom drawer.

"Relax, Lee…you did say Lee, right? I keep more than cutlery down here." He pulled out his whiskey bottle and shot glasses. "Too early for you?" He raised a bushy eyebrow.

"Not at all." Lee took the glass and downed it like he had his share of experience. Al refilled and studied the man's face with a frown until he saw signs of bristling.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Swearengen?"

"Just odd, that's all. I'm assumin' you were born before the war, so that's your parents' excuse, but I confess to some puzzlement that you'd go about with the moniker of "Lee", your old man havin' the appearance of having fought on the Union side. You generally in the habit of pokin' your father with a sharp stick?"

An interesting, angry flush rose up from Lee Adama's collar. _Looks like that struck a nerve._

"It's short for Leland, not a reference to"—it seemed to take more effort than Al expected for him to recall the right name—"General Robert E. Lee."

"And yet…." He shrugged. "Not tellin' you what to do_, Lee,_ but you might want to think twice about givin' out that name. Still have a few old-timers whose wounds have not yet healed. You got any other name you could go by?"

Lee looked down at his chest like he expected something to be there, then met Al's eyes again.

"I've gone by 'Apollo' for the past several years."

Al raked his gaze over the even, classical features. "Well, you're pretty enough for it, I suppose, if you like that kind of look." He poured another shot. "Might want to stick with 'Leland' for the time bein', just to be on the safe side. Not sure if bein' considered queer or a follower of General Lee would more problematic, but—"

He broke off as a shot rang out from the barroom downstairs. He cocked his head. No screams or return fire. Probably Dan trying to get someone's attention, he decided.

"So, Leland, your business with me?"

"Uh…my father's going to need to be away from Falcon's Rest some, and there's quite a bit of business that has to be conducted every day. He wanted to know if you could recommend a lawyer in town that could draw up incorporation papers, deeds…and wills. That sort of thing."

All rubbed his chin. Adama was thinking ahead, true enough. He was surprised the usually well-prepared Bill Adama didn't already have a will drawn up…surprised his wife hadn't insisted on that, unless she'd been too sick. He shrugged again. For all he knew, both might have wills that would only be under color of law if they went back to where they came from.

_Wherever and whatever the fuck that might be, that had more than half-killed Mrs. Adama._

"You realize that a 'trustworthy lawyer' is right up there with 'virtuous whore' for bein' rare as a fuckin' unicorn."

The young man gave that ill-concealed smirk again. "Yes, sir…my grandfather was a lawyer, so I'm well aware of the stereotype."

_Bill Adama was the son of a shyster? Day was gettin' odder by the minute._

"See, to my way of thinkin', you get a trustworthy cocksucker, known to you and yours, and let him read law until he can slither up the state bar and pass the exam. Of course, I know your father and his folk frequently like to find their own ways to accomplish their ends."

"Read law?" The young man seemed to perk up at that. "I…actually have done something like that." His face darkened and Al thought there might be some unpleasant memories in that particular mix.

"Well, there you have it…_Leland_. Assumin' your old man finds you trustworthy enough for the task, the simplest, if not the swiftest course of action would be for you to set yourself up with your own shingle."

"I suppose that'd be my father's call." His tone was stiff as his neck.

_Oh, so that's how it is._

"Well, that's my recommendation, and not entirely on account of we don't have a livin' lawyer in town at the moment. Might be a couple up to Belle Fouche, at a half-day's ride. Couldn't speak for what you might find in Lead…and wouldn't suggest you go diggin' around in fuckin' Hearst's back yard anyways."

The young man—Al supposed he could call him "Lee" in his head, not having any more animosity against the rebel general that any other figure of authority—did have a lawyerly look about him. The notion of him in a frock coat and tie, twisting oily words in front of a judge and jury, seemed more believable than him trying to be like his old man, whatever that might look like.

"So if this seems like a workable plan to my father, where can I buy law books around here?"

Al looked at the newish rug on his office floor. He should start buying a few at a time, or think about retiring and letting such things be someone else's problem.

"The last shyster come through here ended up leaving his collection of law books behind when he…left town." _Ended up leavin' a few pints of blood behind on my rug as well._ Al hated that…Alma had helped him pick out a new rug after the fire and he'd quite liked it. Shame an educated man couldn't lose at cards gracefully without accusing the house of cheating and threatening to bring in the Pinkertons.

Heavy bootsteps sounded outside the door.

"Think I hear Dan now, young Adama. I can have him fetch those books from storage if you like."

His hollered "Yeah" coincided with Dan shoving the door open with his foot, his hands occupied with restraining the Gem's newest faro dealer, whose short blond hair was flying as wildly as her curses.

"Boss, you want me to take her over to the jail, let her cool off?"

To Al's surprise, his new dealer quieted as soon as she saw Lee Adama. Good to know something had the power to shut her up for a minute or two. If she hadn't shown such a good way with manipulating a deck of cards…

"Lee?"

The young man was on his feet, his expression somewhere between shock and delight.

"Kara?"

Al and Dan shot each other slightly bemused looks as the two younger members of Tribe Adama spoke at the same time.

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought you were back on—" Kara started.

"I thought you had gone to—" Lee interrupted.

The bemused looks turned into the closest thing to shock either man had felt in over a year, as Kara Thrace shoved herself out of Dan's grip and walked into Lee Adama's open arms.

The two hugged each other tight, his new faro dealer looking happier than he'd seen her since she first came to town. Al uttered a quiet "Jesus Christ" under his breath, rolling his eyes at Dan. Pulling out another two shot glasses, he poured all four of them a round. Whatever was going on, it looked like it called for a drink.

.

.


	29. Chapter 29

**Early morning in two communities in the Dakota Territory: Some people are winding down; others are gearing up, and change is everywhere. **

.

.

Al Swearengen was starting to get used to his new schedule, although it still felt odd to get up with the chickens. For most of his adult life, roosters crowing in the street had signaled it was time to get some sleep, not get out of bed.

He forked up the last bite of poached egg and toast, dabbed his napkin against his mouth, and got up to fetch the coffee pot. Topping off his cup, he noticed Alma's cup was empty, and refilled hers as well. Might as well add "waiting on the widow Ellsworth" to the list of things he was getting used to. Not that he minded, really.

Of course, she wasn't "the widow Ellsworth" anymore, even if he sometimes still thought of her by that moniker.

"Thank you, Mr. Swearengen." Alma smiled up at him, clear-eyed and ready to start her day.

"Don't mention it. And don't get used to it, either. I just happened to be up, is all," he said gruffly.

"Of course you were." Her eyes twinkled with humor. He couldn't complain, really, her finding entertainment in him adjusting to the details of living in a real home instead of a room above a saloon.

_Every step a fuckin' adventure_was the sum and substance of this new way of life. Just goes to show you, he figured, you're never too old to adjust to change…not even him.

"Did I miscount the days, or are you goin' into the bank on a Saturday?" he asked.

She set the empty china cup down in its saucer. "Mr. Adama—Leland, that is—needed to get my signature on some papers before he rides up to Yankton today."

"He's goin' off _today_, with everything goin' on up there?"

Alma looked pensive as she looked out the window. The first edge of the sun was just peeking over the horizon. "He said it would be a hard day for his wife, and he thought it best to spend a few days alone with her, away from Falcon's Rest."

"Wish he thought it best to let her come back as my faro dealer. Girl has a quick hand on her."

A quirked eyebrow told him what Alma thought of Lee Adama "letting" Kara Thrace Adama do anything. He sighed. He'd been sorry to see that one go, even if she did have a habit of settling disputes with her fists. The ink had barely dried on young Adama's law license when the mismatched pair stood up in front of Rev. Cramed. Al had hardly recognized her in the dress she'd borrowed for the occasion.

His loss was Falcon's Rest's gain, he supposed. While he couldn't fathom how so many grown men (and women, from what he heard of her students) had survived adulthood without learning how to fire a gun, he could see Kara as being a natural for teaching that particular skill.

_A lawyer and a gunslinger_…sounded like the start of a ribald joke. He gave Alma Russell Garret Ellsworth Swearengen an appraising look as she stood at the sink, her back (_and her curvaceous ass, albeit covered with that fuckin' bustle_) towards him.

_Lee Adama and Kara Thrace Adama_…it wasn't the strangest matrimonial pairing in the county.

Not by a long shot.

.

.

The morning mists hovered just above the water's surface, making it seem like the boat was slowly cutting through clouds. The only sounds were the occasional cries of the birds flying high, just out of sight, and the quiet splash of oars in the water. The scent of pine trees was a faint perfume coming from unseen banks hidden by the mist. A glimmer of gold in the distance had slowly risen in the east, the sun's rays muted and pale.

Laura steadied herself with one hand on the side of the boat, pulling her woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders with her other hand. The aches and pains of bone rubbing against too-thin flesh had disappeared, and the relief added to her deep feeling of contentment and peace. She quietly reveled in taking deep, centering breaths, and she imagined the fresh, moist air enriching her lungs, then flowing throughout her body. She closed her eyes in pleasure at simply being in a comfortable, peaceful state, where she had everything she'd ever needed.

As she opened her eyes, she saw figures on the shore, first a couple, then more, standing on the grassy bank waiting for the boat to arrive. Her heart swelled as she moved closer to home with each oar stroke.

_Home._

The peace was broken by a rumbling voice behind her.

"Sure wish we'd been able to keep a thermos or two. I could really use a cup of hot coffee."

She turned on her wooden seat to look at Bill, framed against the soft morning glow of sunlight through the mists coming off of the lake. His shoulders had grown more powerful with the physical labor their new life required, and he maneuvered the small fishing boat through the lake waters as easily as he had piloted their last raptor through the air. She could see his arm muscles flexing through his wool shirtsleeves as he dipped and pulled the oars in a steady rhythm. The mist had left tiny droplets of water in his mustache.

"I'm sure somebody's got a pot on, waiting for us."

She glanced down at the wicker basket between them, full of fat walleye fish. As Bill had pulled in catch after catch, she had realized how fished out the lakes on Caprica had become, before the attacks. Her father had a favorite fishing hole at the place they used to go camping as a family. He would have been thrilled to catch just one or two of these beauties.

She smiled as she remembered watching her parents take a similar fishing boat out while she minded her sisters for a couple of hours. Maybe they had been looking for a quiet interlude with each other, enjoying being on the water without the noise that three girls could produce.

_Her family would have loved Earth._

"You're not getting too cold, are you?"

Bill's voice still carried that note of worry. They had cut it too close for comfort the last time, their schedule thrown off by the mutiny. She had insisted on staying indoors at their home in Falcon's Rest for over a week before even letting herself be seen at the living room window. Dr. Cottle was her only visitor until she looked like she'd moved a few steps away from death's door.

She didn't even remember arriving in that last frantic exodus from Galactica, just flashes of memories: pain, Helo's grim expression as Bill had lifted her into the raptor, the sight of Earth, blue and white as they flew into the atmosphere. Her next memory was of landing in the cleared area outside of the settlement.

The meadow's days of being used as a raptor landing field were over for good now. It held the new Falcon's Rest community barn and livery, providing transportation of another sort. The fledgling Kobol Corporation had purchased a dozen quarter horses from Sheriff Bullock's ranch and four drays from a farm in Sturgis. One day soon, she suspected, attitudes would shift towards private ownership, and the residents of Falcon's Rest would spread out, as the Fleet had done all over the world. Today, though, the vestiges of four years of communal living still felt strong and safe.

"I'm fine, Bill. This shawl is plenty." She reached over to touch his hand as he stilled the oars for a moment. "Any sign of the other boats?" she asked.

Bill craned his neck, trying to see through the clearing mists. "Not yet. Hot Dog wanted to try a spot past the west bend."

Laura looked back towards the far edge of the lake, where the river flowed over rocky outcroppings. Shading her eyes with her hand, she said, "I think I see Helo and Athena. They're headed back, too."

"Wonder if Hera caught anything?" Bill said, grinning. Helo had introduced Hera to fishing once they were well into the spring thaw, carving a fishing rod sized just for her. She had been a natural from the minute she dropped her line in the crystal clear water.

He began rowing again, easing up to the dock as Saul came over to tie off the boat.

"Looks like you two had a good morning." He glanced at Laura. "Didn't figure you for being a fisherman."

"Oh, I suspect I was along more for luck than anything else." She let Saul help her from the boat to the dock, then got out of the way as he and Bill wrestled with the heavy wicker basket.

"Why don't you go on over to our place? Ellen's got coffee made."

"Do we have enough fish-cleaning volunteers?" asked Laura, looking at the group of six former crew members gathered around a rough table, gutting and boning knives at hand.

"Yep. We've cleared a space in the ice house for the fillets. And I sent Figurski into town to buy chickens and a side of elk," Saul said.

Laura linked arms with Bill. "Let's let them get to work on your catch, Bill. We've got a long day ahead of us."

"Lead the way, Mrs. Adama." His eyes crinkled with pleasure as he called her by his favorite title.

The sun finally broke through the last of the morning mist, the rays catching the gold band of her left hand. It had become so much more than part of their cover story...even the feel of it had changed after their simple ceremony.

They had asked Rev. Cramed to come to their home after Bill swore him to secrecy that day. He hadn't even lifted an eyebrow as Bill had obliquely told him the truth: although they had lived as common-law husband and wife for years, they had never been legally married. The gold band was still the same one she'd worn at the start of their subterfuge, but once he pronounced them husband and wife, it had felt different somehow… a little more solid. Warmer against her skin.

She had been too weak to stand, sitting in her nightgown and the dressing robe Mrs. Ellsworth had given her as a "welcome home" gift. The Tighs had served as witnesses for the short ceremony, pretending that the newly married Adamas wanted privacy to consummate their marriage as they left afterwards. Exhausted, Laura could only offer Bill a kiss that day before she had to lie down and rest, his arms cradling her as she slept.

It had taken longer to recover from the cancer this last time. Doc Cottle had speculated it was the delay in coming back to Earth, but Laura privately thought it had been the terror and rage she had gone through during her last weeks in space. Three weeks after their quiet wedding, they had finally been able to make love as husband and wife. It had been as sweetly erotic as both had dared hope, rivaling the night they had shaken the rafters and rained plaster dust down over the Grand Central's dining room. Their first married frak had been a heartfelt, enthusiastic victory over the illness that had threatened her for so long.

Their steps now took them to the new section of Falcon's Rest, where the Tighs had built a tidy house with an attached workshop, almost as spacious as the dwelling itself. Ellen's old abilities and talents had come back at full strength after her resurrection, and had sparked Saul's past skills as well.

Patent offices in four countries were getting used to new filings by subsidiaries of Kobol Corporation. The minor (but helpful) innovations submitted were just part of the flood of new inventions from everywhere as the world moved into the last decades of the nineteenth century.

Bill might get his thermos for hot coffee before too long, Laura mused. When Chief Tyrol had written to say he was coming, he had hinted at a "new-old" invention he'd been working on that the Old Man would appreciate. She was touched that he'd made the trip from Scotland for Founder's Day, along with his new wife, the daughter of a Picon engineer.

Ellen opened the door as soon as they stepped onto the porch. She had smudges of white and green on her face and her hands were dusted with flour. She looked a bit panicked as she surveyed the throng of people around the livery, greeting another coachful of arrivals.

"Coffee's on, and I'm going to need some help with baking." She gave Laura a hopeful look.

Laura groaned. She hadn't been that much of a cook before the attacks. She was getting used to the wood stove for the basics, but the oven was another story. Bill gave her an understanding nod.

"Let me pour myself a cup and I'll go start the fire. Need me to get anything from the spring house before I get home?"

She thought for a minute. "Go ahead and get the butter crock out, and a couple of jars of pickles. And the other—"

"I've already gotten the last crate of hooch out. We never worried about it being chilled to the right temperature before." Ellen shot a wry grin at Laura.

Laura went into the kitchen and took an extra apron off the door peg, tying it around her waist. Wrinkling her nose at the small barrel of green powder on the floor, she rolled up her sleeves and began scooping and sifting.

.

.

"Mr. Adama, sir?" the curly-haired Russian called as Bill passed the small telegraph office next to Falcon Rest's new community hall.

"Morning, Yuri. Got something for me?" Bill drained his cup and parked it on the railing as he stepped into the cluttered office.

Yuri Blazanov handed Bill a handful of messages. "Many, Mr. Adama," he said in his heavily Russian-accented English. "They began early this morning."

Bill flipped through the stack. The messages had originated from Canada, Mexico, Australia, and US territories in the northwest. The short sentences were similar:

_Best wishes to Falcon's Rest._

All is well with us.

We remember.

With you in spirit today.

And each one ended with a carefully printed "_So say we all._"

"You have friends in many places, Mr. Adama."

Bill nodded warily, hoping Yuri was as dedicated to confidentiality of communication as his cousin, Pavel Blazanov, was. Al had vouched for the young telegraph man, apparently having a great deal of faith in the Deadwood operator and seeing the same qualities in this more recent immigrant. Still, he knew the amount and type of traffic the man saw through the Falcon's Rest office was unusual, to say the least.

"You still planning to stay with your cousin tonight?"

He felt bad about asking the young Russian to abandon his telegraph post and essentially get out of town for twenty-four hours. He knew, though, that liquor of all types would flow as the night went on. The former Colonials, maybe even the Cylons, could easily start talking about things that would be too hard to explain.

"I am. I understand things very well here. Better than you think, perhaps." Bill was surprised to see Yuri's eyes begin to fill.

He reached into a cabinet by his desk and brought out a small crockery bottle and two delicate glasses. "I think this is a special day for your people. Please, Mr. Adama, share a glass of slivovitz with me. I do not ask you to share anything else, just this."

He poured a clear, plum-scented liquid into the glasses. Bill had his doubts—Laura wouldn't be happy at him starting so early in the day—but this seemed important to the young man. Yuri held the glass up, said a few words in Russian, and ended it with a toast in English.

"To your people, wherever they may be."

"To my people." The plum brandy went down easy and sweet.

Yuri kept his eyes on the last few drops left in the glass. "Mr. Adama, you have heard something of my cousin's and my story, I think."

"You cousin told me of the pogroms against your family when he and you were at university. I was sorry to hear what happened." He waited, turning the tiny glass in his hands.

"I know what it is like, your people scattered by others, so many dead, and you keep moving, not knowing if you will live or die." He closed his eyes for a second, and Bill wondered how many horrors he was trying to keep at bay.

"So," Yuri continued, eyes open and grave, "I understand the need to come together, just the ones who remember, with no outsiders to question, nor, perhaps, to judge." He put his glass down and stood, hand extended.

"Whatever you and your people have gone through to get here is not the business of myself or anyone else. But please, as one who has experienced the seeking and finding of refuge, let me congratulate you and your people on your survival."

Bill's words caught in his throat as he shook the man's hand. He knew without asking that nothing of Yuri's observations would be shared with anyone else. He hoped the other groups of settlers were finding this kind of understanding as they made their new lives.

"Thank you, Yuri." He started to add more, but the clatter of the telegraph apparatus started up again. Yuri grabbed his pencil as he sat back down at his post and began transcribing the latest message.

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	30. Chapter 30

Al was finishing the last of the coffee and had started on the latest issue of the _Black Hills Pioneer _when Alma returned from the Bank of Deadwood and her business with Leland Adama, Attorney at Law. As she put away her light cloak and hat and began straightening up the kitchen, he stepped out to the porch out of habit.

It had been odd at first, observing the camp melting into spring from the three foot high front porch of the Ellsworth-Swearengen home instead of the Gem's lofty balcony, high above the muck. Al's coffee cup still balanced just fine on the railing, though.

He supposed he should put away the term "camp" from the Deadwood nomenclature for good. It had been a proper town, at times as busy as a small city, for over three years now. He no longer tried to calculate in his head how many whores an increase in population would support. Dan now would work those figures out, or get Silas to do it, him having the greater head for numbers.

The screen door clicked behind him.

"I brought your jacket, Mr. Swearengen. It's too cool yet to be out here without it."

Alma held out his jacket, the walking stick she hadn't mentioned in her hand as well. _Presumptuous woman, minding his aging joints more carefully than he did himself._

"Thanks for the jacket, and set the stick down, would you? I'm not of a mind to go for a stroll just yet."

"As you like." She came to stand by him, linking her arm in his.

Al looked at the woman standing next to him, a wide gold band gleaming on her left hand. Featherings of white were at her temples, and her delicate pureblood features had softened just a bit with the passage of the last three years. The large Deadwood Public Library down the thoroughfare spoke to her relentless commitment to the betterment of the town, though. That hadn't softened whatso-fucking-ever.

And put her, and the Bullock woman, and Laura fuckin' Adama in one room with a civic problem…Christ Almighty! Thank God they hadn't yet taken affront to whorehouses and saloons, other than asking that the former be referred to as "gentlemen's clubs" or "sporting houses."

"Do you think the Adamas will stay settled this time?" She glanced up the road, wider this year, that led to Falcon's Rest.

"I expect so. Now that the great mystery of their origins is over, and they've done all they need to do, at least for now, they should be content enough to rest on their laurels."

"Did I tell you that Mrs. Adama is talking about a children's theater, attached to the library?"

"No, you didn't, and I'll thank you not to do so now, if you don't mind. If it's a donation you're lookin' for, take it out of our account." He gave her a stern look from under black eyebrows that had started to speckle with silver.

Alma smiled indulgently at his gruffness. He knew she was well aware he had mixed feelings about the theater. _Sounds like the ladies are spendin' too much time in Jack Langrishe's presence_. He'd have to speak to Adama about that silver-tongued Irish show-runner, he thought, as he sat down in one of the wicker porch chairs.

Alma stepped behind him and bent enough to put her arms around his shoulders. That lily-of-the-valley perfume still brought him to a respectable cockstand, even with him occasionally needing his gold-headed cane to get up the stairs.

"Have you taken note of the traffic on the coach road? It hasn't stopped since six this morning."

"Yeah, that fuckin'—sorry—that shindig they're holdin' is bringin' folks in from all over." He shrugged. "They're popular, I guess. Him more than her, I imagine, though she has her followers, too."

She chuckled softly in his ear. "Remember when you thought they were deposed royalty?"

"Hush, woman." He felt a flush creeping across his weathered cheeks. "A man tries to suss something out with inadequate information, he should be excused for not gettin' it right."

They sat in contentment on the porch, Alma rubbing his shoulders now and then as they both surveyed the town they'd helped build in their different ways. Not the way he'd pictured his declining years…but when he was with his elegant, sometimes befuddling wife, he found he couldn't complain. If he'd been a religious man, he would have offered up prayers of thanksgiving regularly.

Not being such, he concentrated on being a decent enough husband and at least an adequate step-father. Sofia would be looking at women's colleges back east within the next couple of years, and he found (although he would never, on pain of death, admit it) he would miss the young lady she'd become. She reminded him of Alma sometimes, and he wondered if Alma's father hadn't been such a bounder, if she would have made different choices in her life.

Not that a pimp and cutthroat sounded much better than a broad-tosser and a clip, but at least he knew what he was. No self-deception here.

The child had become easier in his presence, once he started giving over a half-hour every evening to playing a game or two of checkers. And she'd taken his lessons in self-defense with a good enough attitude. God help the man who tried to cause her harm when she was out on her own.

A flash of white caught his eye at the far end of the thoroughfare. As it raced closer, he jumped to his feet, bad hip be damned.

"Get back, Alma." He pulled his best knife out of its sheath on his belt as he tried to assess the activity from his less-than-ideal vantage point. His pulse slowed as the running figure became clear: it was his step-daughter, skirts held up and running like the devil was at her heels.

He leaned over the porch railing, glowering at the child he'd once ordered…_well, the less he thought about that, the better. _

"What the fu—what the he—" He growled in frustration. Damn Alma and her aversion to nasty language. "What's the matter, child?"

The words were barely out of his mouth when he realized she was grinning ear to ear.

"Guess what came in on the stage just now?" Her Nordic blue eyes were dancing.

"Sofia, please! Come sit and tell us what's gotten you so excited." Alma gestured for her adopted daughter to come sit on the wicker settee.

"Mr. Adama's new book came today!" She tried to get her breathing under control and act like a lady, Al could tell. _Never did see a child so excited by books._

"Is it another one about the plucky brothers who fly to the moon, having a series of implausible but entertaining adventures?" He gave Sofia an indulgent smile, hoping she didn't find out he had purchased a copy of the children's book for himself. Cocksucker was almost as good as Jules Verne, though he'd never tell him that.

Her color was high in her cheeks. "No, Mr. Swearengen, it's ever so much better! Mr. Merrick let me take a look at the copy he ordered. It's about a girl who secretly sneaks onto a rocket and flies to Mars."

He raised an eyebrow. "A thief, in other words."

Oh, hell, he couldn't take the crestfallen expression that was starting to erase her smile.

"Never mind, child. I'm sure it's not exactly thievery if it's a…a space ship. Maybe that's more like piracy."

The sunny look was back again. "Mr. Merrick says the mercantile bought a dozen copies to sell." She looked at her mother and step-father hopefully.

"Don't hint, Sofia. You're better served by simply asking for what you want." Alma gave her a stern look.

"Now, Alma, you'll have her speakin' her mind as quick as Trixie. Let's not be hasty, hmm?" He gave his wife a slight smirk as he pulled a few coins out of his pocket.

"Take this, young lady. Go buy a copy for yourself and one for the library." He sat back in his chair with no little satisfaction at his civic-mindedness. "Be quick about it, and mind you carry yourself in a lady-like manner. We'll take it up to Falcon's Rest later on, see if the great author himself can sign it for you."

Sofia grinned and ran down the porch stairs, blond ponytail flying until Alma cleared her throat. She slowed her gait and walked quickly back down the thoroughfare, seeming to keep herself from breaking into a run again by sheer force of will.

"So, we're going to see the Adamas? I thought this was something of a private gathering," Alma said.

"I talked to Adama yesterday about it. They have some private memorial hoopla they'll be startin' come evening, but he asked we come by mid-day."

Alma smiled as she watched her daughter navigate the crowded wooden sidewalks with the requested decorum. "Are you sure they won't mind? They are such private people."

"Nah, he's easin' up in his old age, same as I am. Not that I blame him for his discretion. If I'd sickened my wife multiple times, draggin' her all over the world gettin' ideas for stories, I'd keep it to myself, too."

"Oh, surely some of her talk of family responsibilities was true, Albert. I enjoy her fiction as well as his, but I remember what I saw and heard when she would come back so sickly."

He looked up the road towards Falcon's Rest, then turned in his chair to look back at the town he'd founded almost a decade ago.

"As with most of our tales, Alma, I'm guessin' the truth is somewhere in between, muddled in the middle of the lies and the facts half-told." He pulled himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his hip. "A hundred years from now, what's it going to matter, anyways?" He held out his hand to help her up.

The foot traffic had slowed enough so he thought she'd be comfortable with him slipping an arm around her waist in the shade of the porch. "What matters," he continued, "is that she seems to be enjoying good health right now. As is he." He moved closer, her scent going to his head a bit. "As are we. I'd have us make an early visit and an early return, if it's all the same to you."

He was gratified to see he could still bring a blush to her cheeks. "Mr. Swearengen, you are incorrigible."

"So they say, Mrs. Swearengen. So they say."

.

. . ********************************************

.

. Saul glared up at the wagon driver as well as he could with the use of one eye. "I said pull to the left, Godsdamnit!"

The fine-boned man driving the wagon glared right back. "Colonel-_Mr._ Tigh, I claim expertise in science, and in farming. I make no such claims in wagon-driving."

"Just pull here, then here, Gaius." Caprica touched the reins with a light hand. The deep blue clothing she now favored suited her coloring as well as scarlet red had. Letting her guide him like it was nothing new at all, Gaius pulled the wagon neatly up to the hitching post as Saul called others over to start helping unload the wagon.

"Frak me, I would've thought it was too early for tomatoes yet." Saul looked at the bushel baskets with grudging admiration. Besides the basket of tomatoes and another of green peppers, there were three kinds of greens, potatoes, carrots and parsnips that had been stored through the winter, and jars of green beans and corn.

"Not to brag, but our greenhouses have been quite successful. Wait until we come back in two months," he said with the expected Baltar self-pride. "I'm trying a new strain of melon, and we're setting out strawberries this year."

Saul looked up to where Caprica sat in the wagon. "Still full of himself, I see."

She smiled beatifically down at him, her left hand resting on her belly, just beginning to round against her skirt. "I think you'll actually enjoy the results of his self-confidence this time, Saul."

A pang of loss ran through him, then he remembered the scope of his real, true family. He couldn't begrudge them their happiness, even if it was Gaius Baltar. He began directing the gathered men to unload the wagon and start bringing the food to the matriarchs of Falcon's Rest.

.

. **************************

.

. Every cook-stove in Falcon's Rest was going strong by mid-day, dozens of loaves of bread coming out to cool every couple of hours while more were put in the oven. Cast iron pots bubbled on stovetops or sat in banked coals to keep gallons of potatoes, beans, and corn hot.

Open fires a distance away from the houses blazed under large cooking pots suspended from hot oil within bubbled and popped, waiting to fry up pieces of fish and chicken dipped in buttermilk batter.

Fragrant steam was rising from a fire-pit nearby, where haunches of elk and deer had been put in covered pots with onions and pepper, then buried in hot coals hours earlier. The meat would be roasted and falling off the bone in another hour or two.

It was a far cry from the CIC, but as Saul looked around at the community preparations coming together, he felt the same as he had when everything and everybody around him was working like a fine oiled machine. There's a turn of phrase he'd have to remember to tell Ellen, he thought, as he swung the basket of tomatoes up on one shoulder.

.

. ******************

.

. Laura dusted off her hands and put her apron back on its peg as she watched Al slowly climb down from his wagon, accepting the cane Sofia offered with grudging grace. The kitchen activities seemed to be at a stopping point, at least for a few minutes. After a warm greeting, she told Alma and Sofia where they could find Bill and assured them he'd be delighted to sign the flyleaf of his new book.

"You're lookin' well, Mrs. Adama. Hard to believe I was havin' lumber measured for your coffin this time last year."

She leaned up against the buckboard beside the former pimp. "Trust me, I feel the same way." She looked over the beehive of busy former Fleet members going about a variety of tasks. "It was worth it, though."

"To get new material." He nodded.

"Excuse me?"

He cut his eyes at her with a sly grin. "Your journeys off to dangerous, sickening climates to gather material for those books you and he write, is what I mean. The sacrifices you made for your craft and such, that the two of you covered up with tales of mysterious family responsibilities."

Her grin was similar to his, if a bit forced. "Exactly. The sacrifices were worth it, in the end."

She wondered sometimes how much he believed their cover story, now firmly established since Bill had found a market for his writing and she for hers. Apparently Al Swearengen still retained his skill at disregarding whatever he didn't find pertinent to his own interests.

As if he could read her mind, he said, "A more curious man would wonder how being a couple of aspiring writers would lead to being responsible for the resettling of a large number of displaced persons...not that I personally give a fuck." His words hung in the air for a moment. "I suppose you could have led more complicated lives before you decided to put pen to paper. World's full of people doin' strange things these days."

Laura smiled and gave a non-committal hum.

"We do want to thank you for all the help you've given us, Mr. Swearengen. For all your…ways, you've been a remarkably trustworthy ally."

He waved her thanks off. "Believe me, Mrs. Adama, ain't nothing I did for you and yours that didn't profit me in some way, monetary or otherwise. The two of you came into Deadwood during some dark days. Your little…oddities, so to speak, proved a welcome distraction, as did you and your man's occasional listening ear."

She looked towards the community hall and saw Bill deep in conversation with Sofia Ellsworth as he held her new book and a pen, the new Mrs. Swearengen looking on with approval.

"I'm finally feeling like our dark days are behind us."

He followed her gaze and nodded. "Feels fuckin' good, does it not?"

This time her hum was one of agreement.

.

. ************************************

.

By the time the sun was setting, a roughly assembled dance floor had been set up next to the community hall and the amateur musicians had played a couple of folksy tunes on newly bought fiddles and mandolins. By unspoken agreement, the Adamas had the first dance, Bill gliding with Laura over the dance floor as easily as he had done at their first Colonial Day dance.

They were soon joined by the Tighs, who moved with the all the grace they'd developed over centuries of reading the messages of each other's bodies. Helo twirled Sofia in an old Caprican folk dance until both extended their hands to pull Sharon in to join them.

Taking a break, Laura sat at one of the long tables next to Bill, enjoying the way the torchlight played across his features. It reminded her of one of the few good memories of New Caprica. She patted her pocket, feeling for the home-rolled smoke Kara had given her before she and Lee headed up to Yankton. The cannabis they grew here was almost as good as New Caprican weed. She hadn't decided yet whether to recreate that bit of personal history tonight or not.

As she sat and watched the festivities, she overheard Al's deep rumble from behind her as he spoke to his wife.

"Well, we should be going before full nightfall, Alma. Tell Miss Sofia there'll be other dances, I've no doubt." The Swearengen family came up to say their goodbyes, Sofia looking tired but happy as they left.

Laura watched Bill and Al exchange a few private words by their buckboard, then shake hands with firm purpose. She'd have to ask about that later.

_Much later. _

By the time the Swearengens were out of sight, the music had come to a stop. The tables groaned with an array of platters and bowls, but first, the residents and guests filed into the community hall. It had been structured like one of the many churches in town, plain rows of benches facing a raised stage in front. It seemed like old times, sharing a podium with William Adama. Two tables were in front of the podium, one to each side, their contents covered with white sheets.

Once the group had settled in their seats, some standing along the walls, Bill began to speak.

"A man I met a few years ago said something to me I've never forgotten, and it seems right to share that with all of you tonight. The occasion was the anniversary of a tragedy in Deadwood, a tragedy for a few that meant others might live in peace." He glanced down at the card in front of him.

"'_Remembering anniversaries seems to be the way we're made. Maybe it's Mother Nature's way of knocking us with a two-by-four once in a while so we don't forget our mistakes_.'

"It's a time of looking back, so we can better plan going forward."

Bill went over the painful parts everyone remembered, presenting them in the context of what they had survived rather than what they had endured. When he reached the part about Sam Ander's sacrifice as the Fleet was flown into the sun, Laura was glad Kara and Lee had begged off. She was sure they would be remembering this date in their own way, in the privacy Kara needed.

The familiar slow clap began, rising to a crescendo when she changed places with Bill. The crowd of survivors quieted. She reiterated what Bill had said, stopping once when the images of Billy, then Elosha, Cami, and others flashed through her mind and tightened her throat.

"I thought of different ways to commemorate the first anniversary of the final end of our search, and thanks to the Tighs' foresight and Chief Tyrol's talents, I believe we found the right symbols for us tonight."

She walked to the tables and pulled back the sheets. One table held a pile of pale green loaves, the other held jars of clear liquid.

"I remember when we found the algae planet, how excited we were that we wouldn't starve. And I remember days when I was sure I couldn't get down another bite. I don't think anyone here ever wanted to taste this stuff again or drink another drop of Galactica rotgut, after we settled here." She smiled at the emphatic shouts of agreement.

"These are the last algae loaves and Battlestar home brew in the universe," she continued. "For better or for worse, it's a final taste of our former home, and of our journey. Please join me in finishing our last Fleet meal."

She had thought this would be a raucous celebration of putting the hardships of the past behind them. As she tore off a bit of algae bread, brought it to her mouth, and washed it down with the burning rotgut, she was surprised to feel tears come to her eyes.

_We made it. We really, really made it._

She passed the loaf and jar to Bill, and the shine in his eyes told her he was feeling the same thing…triumph in their survival, grief for what they'd lost, and appreciation for what had let them survive. The mood was respectfully subdued as people passed the trays and jars around to share a bit of this last remnant of shipboard life in the Fleet.

Algae and homemade hooch had never tasted so sweet.

.

. ************************************

.

Bill and Laura stood in the doorway of the community hall afterwards, watching the group of Colonials and Cylons shake off the weight of memories and dig into the bounty set out on the long tables. Chief Tyrol passed around glasses of amber whiskey poured from a keg of his fledgling distillery's finest, promising a much smoother blend in another few years' time. As people pushed away from the table, the musicians tuned up their instruments again. The guests who hadn't stuffed themselves completely began drifting back to the dance floor.

"You hungry?" Bill asked.

"Not really. I've been around food all day, and I put a few plates in the pie chest for later."

She could still see the heart-warming blue of his eyes, even by torchlight. Something she'd been dragging around, some old weight of responsibility and loss, seemed to have slipped away in the dark. She felt lighter, freer than she had in years.

_And speaking of slipping away…_

She put her arms around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder, enjoying the bulk and warmth of his sturdy body. She almost purred in contentment as he stroked her back, lips touching her hair.

"Bill, can you coordinate closing everything up with the Tighs?"

He pulled back and looked at her with a puzzled expression. "How come? Aren't we doing that?"

"I need to go on to the house. I've got something I need to do there."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"You know I've had to move my belongings back and forth, never knowing how long I'd stay in one place, all that uncertainty, things lost…." She felt bad for a second as a dark look of worry crossed his face.

"I know. I remember times when…never mind. You're right. So?"

She couldn't contain the giggle that bubbled up as she leaned up to whisper in his ear. "I want to make sure I can find that red outfit you like so much."

The relief she saw in his eyes gave her a few pangs of guilt until she saw his gaze turn hot and wanting.

"I think I see Saul by the Chief's keg. I won't be long." He kissed her, a quick peck at first that lengthened into a prelude to the rest of their evening before she pulled away.

"Give me ten minutes," she said, as she slipped out the door into the night air.

"Oh, I'll give you more than that," he said, grinning and giving her that slumber-eyed loving look that always undid her.

She felt lighter than air as she walked towards their home. Her heart was full of so much love.

_Full of so much life._

_FIN_


	31. Epilogue

The midsummer sun caressed the two riders as they rode double on the majestic black gelding, the rays lighting the threads of silver in his hair and the threads of gold in her auburn waves. Their mount picked his steps carefully over the rocky trail as the towering pines cast cooling shadows below.

Laura sighed with contentment as she snuggled her nose against the sun-warmed cotton stretching over Bill's shoulders. The fragrance of line-dried laundry mixed with his natural skin scent was one of her favorite little details about Earth. She tightened her grip around his waist as she swayed back and forth with each step that Blackbird took. The white of her hiked-up petticoats flashed in sharp contrast to the gleaming ebony of the horse's coat, her stocking-clad legs pressed tight against his sleek sides.

They had been following the river that fed the lake in Falcon's Rest, climbing higher as the morning went on. The water rushed and eddied in pools along the way, shallow enough to wade across in some spots, deep enough to swim in others. The sound of the flowing water and the gentle rocking rhythm of the horse's gait had almost lulled her to sleep when Bill squeezed her hand as it rested on his hip.

"We're almost there."

She looked at the stand of old growth trees in front of them, the stream cutting through the middle. The banks had become increasingly mossy as the area they rode through became more heavily wooded. The path under Blackbird's feet had narrowed, now not much wider than their two-person buggy Bill had crafted that spring.

"Where's 'there'? I thought we were just going for a picnic in the woods." The pouches tied to the saddle were full of roast beef, bread and cheese, and a cloth-wrapped assortment of fresh vegetables. A flask of good whiskey hung beside a canteen of fresh well water. A tightly rolled blanket rested between Laura and the back of the saddle, giving her some welcome padding as they rode.

The further they got from home, the higher her hopes rose for how they might make use of that blanket. A certain lack of privacy had become the cost of being recognized as "town elders" as the young settlement went through the growing pains of becoming a complex community.

It reminded her of working on Adar's first campaign, in a way. After spending the day teaching in the Deadwood schoolhouse (now boasting three classrooms) she came back to Falcon's Rest and sat with Bill as he went over the latest plans and developments from the town council. Invariably, someone would be waiting to talk with him, or her, or both. It wasn't as bad as the Quorum, but there were times when she missed the quiet, private hotel room that had been their first Earth home.

"Close your eyes for a minute, Laura." She could feel his shoulders tighten under her cheek and wondered where his tension was coming from.

"They're closed," she said as she complied with his request. The air turned cooler as she felt the shade deepen. A few more steps and she felt warmth and sensed sudden sunlight again.

"Now open them," he said, a note of pride in his voice.

"Oh my Gods, Bill—how did you manage this?"

He had brought them into a clearing, their rough footpath winding through a carpet of wildflowers blazing with a riot of colors. Patches of red, yellow and white blooms were interspersed with islands of blue and purple flowers. They all flowed into each other in a careless harmony, some growing close to the ground, others reaching up towards the sun. It was beautiful…and strangely familiar.

Bill turned in the saddle, his smile white and toothy against his tanned skin. "Remind you of anything?"

She gazed at the scene before her, delighting in the vibrancy on each side of the winding path. There was something familiar…if the path had been a lot wider, and straighter…something just on the edge of her mind was nudging her memory…. _Cars! That's what was missing._The last time she'd seen this array of wildflowers had been when she drove through the green-spaces in Caprica City.

"These look like the wildflowers the Ministry of Transportation planted along the highways on Caprica. How—" She broke off, speechless at this patch of home from a world now desolate and deadly.

He turned further in the saddle, far enough to put an arm around her. "Believe or not, it was Baltar. Remember when the MOT sold packages of wildflower seeds as part of their highway beautification program? He found a box of seed packs in storage before we left the Fleet. He did some soil testing up here on Founder's Day and said he thought they'd do okay."

She snorted. "Founder's Days always seem to find that man digging in dirt some place or another."

They sat there, taking in the natural beauty around them, until Blackbird stamped his foot and snorted, clearly getting bored.

She ran her hands over the broad shoulders and back in front of her. "So, is this where we're stopping? I think somebody's ready to take a break."

"Not quite yet." He touched his heels to Blackbird's sides and continued on the winding path. Laura drank in the sight around her, as she wondered how many trips Bill had taken up here to seed the clearing, hauling straw in to cover the new plantings from hungry birds. She was still trying to work out how he'd managed this when they rounded a thick copse of trees.

"Last surprise, Laura. I hope this is what you had in mind."

At the end of the winding path was a small log structure, not much bigger than the bedroom in her apartment in Caprica City. She could still hear the rushing sound of the stream, and when she looked to the right, she saw it had widened into a pool of crystal clear water not twenty paces from the path.

"My cabin," she whispered. "You built my cabin." She beamed at her husband as a few happy tears began streaking down her cheeks.

"Yeah," he said, voice husky with emotion. "I finally did."

.

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.  
>Bill made quick work of unloading the horse, watering him in the nearby pool and tying him on a long enough lead so he could graze in comfort out back. He grabbed Laura's arm as she got to the front door of the cabin, scooping her up in his arms while she giggled in delight.<p>

"This time, we're going over the threshold my way, Mrs. Adama." He nudged he door open with his foot and carried her inside.

"It's…it's just perfect, Bill. But how…_why_? I mean, we do have a perfectly fine house in town."

"Yeah, we do. And the whole town knows where it is, and knows when we're home," he answered with a wry smile as he set her on her feet.

She turned slowly, taking in the warm color of the log walls, the huge rocks that formed the fireplace and chimney, sparkling with flecks of mica and quartz. A rack had been put into the fireplace with hooks to hang pots for cooking and heating water. On both sides of the fireplace, he had built shelves, one already holding the books they had published this year.

Under her feet, covering the smooth plank floor, was a braided rag rug with all the colors of the wildflowers outside. A small table and two chairs sat in front of the fireplace, just the right size for two people to share a quiet meal. A smaller table had been placed under the front window, a large oil lamp standing ready to cast reading light over the twin rocking chairs on either side.

All the furnishings faded in comparison to the lavish brass bed on the left. Easily as grand as their bed at home, it took up at least a quarter of the space in the cabin. The polished brass glowed in the sun streaming through the window. The space was so much lighter and airier than she would have imagined from seeing it on the outside, especially in the area of the bed.

"Notice anything unusual?" Bill asked, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"It's incredibly light, isn't it? It's all just so…perfect." She turned in a slow circle again, admiring the neat white curtains and the gleaming polished woodwork.

"You need the right vantage point to appreciate everything." He nudged her closer to the bed, then sat down and drew her into his lap.

"Well, I do like this vantage point," she said, with a pleased hum. She stroked her thumbs over his temples as she ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him down until his lips met hers. She took a second just to enjoy the warmth and softness of his mouth, humming again deep in her throat as he pressed against her.

He wrapped his arms around her, circling her shoulders and waist as he kissed her again, then gently lowered her until she was lying next to him. Her eyes closed as her tongue teased along his lips, then slipped inside, her sense of urgency building. His pulling away took her by surprise, and she looked questioningly into his dusk-blue eyes.

"What?"

"You're still missing something. Look." He pointed up at the ceiling.

Above the head of the bed was a thick glass skylight, built into the roof. Even in full sunlight, she could tell, come nightfall, the view would be a galaxy of stars, sparkling above them as they drifted off to sleep. It would be one of the few beautiful things of their old life, carried into their new one.

"I don't know what to say, Bill. This is…it's amazing. How did you get this built without me finding out?"

He stroked a tender hand over her cheek. "Some early morning meetings here and there, some creative explaining of how I spent my day when you got home from school…some help from others." He grinned again, all his emotions showing so clear to her in his eyes. "It came together, piece by piece."

He rolled over on his back, looking up at the skylight with a contented sigh of his own. "The first morning I was up here after I'd cut the opening, I got here a little before dawn. You should've seen it…the sun coming up through that front window, the sky slowly lightening up overhead as the stars faded. It looked heavenly."

He turned on his side to look at her, laying his arm over her waist. "I couldn't wait for this moment, when I could share this with you, watching your face while you saw what I saw that day."

The look in his eyes shot through her, so hopeful and satisfied at the same time. He looked…_complete_, somehow, like he'd clicked a last puzzle piece into place to create an incredibly beautiful mosaic. She touched his weathered, pitted cheek, the rough texture perfectly familiar under her fingers. Lying there, an image ran though her mind…her, looking up at a deepening blue sky, his face rasping against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs as his lips and tongue played her to a shattering finish.

_Oh, yes. They could have everything, here. _She shifted, putting her leg over him and pulling him closer, feeling his belt buckle press against her center through layers of clothing. His breathing quickened, stirring the wispy strands of hair that had fallen over her cheek. Tightening the arm over her waist, he brought his broad palm down to caress the curves of her bottom until she was moving against him.

Groaning, he rolled on top of her, his lips on her throat, then kissing the sensitive area just under her jaw. As he went lower, kissing and nipping at her collarbone, he ground his hips against her. She arched up, seeking more of the shivery sensation his erection was creating between her legs.

In another minute or two, they'd be naked, skin to skin, all wet heat and slick hardness. There was something delicious, though, about this delicate foreplay, reminiscent of those early stolen moments in her presidential office. They'd both ached for just a taste of what they'd shared before, a kiss, a touch, a whispered promise. Hurried caresses in an empty ward room would be enough to call up their memories and fuel their fantasies when they sought their separate releases hours later.

Laura's chest tightened as she realized again how far they'd come. No more twisting against her hand, a comm handset cradled between her shoulder and cheek as she listened to his gasps and moans on the other end. A sharp jolt of pleasure shot though her abdomen and she jerked, pushing against him with one hand.

"I'm loving this, but with all this privacy and time…." She quirked her lips in a suggestive smile as she met his half-hooded eyes, bright with desire. Even in their own house, their own bedroom, they were well aware that the walls weren't soundproof. The isolation here felt luxurious and freeing.

"Reminds me of all the times we couldn't do what we wanted…when we had to take what we could get," he murmured against her lips, punctuating his words with a kiss.

_He feels it too, all the lost chances_. Her heart twisted for both of them.

He got up, pulling her with him, and began unbuttoning her dress, trailing more kisses down her spine as he uncovered her skin inch by inch. Within minutes, her dress was hung over the back of one of the chairs. It was quickly joined by a white and pale peach pile of petticoats, ribbon-trimmed underthings and a satin brocade corset, its laces tied in a neat bow.

Bill was still admiring her naked body, warm and glowing in the sun pouring through the skylight, when she started on his shirt buttons with impatient fingers.

"My turn," she said.

As she pulled his shirt out of his jeans and started on his belt, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "I never get to see you in sunlight, you know. I love seeing you in lamplight, but this.…" Her voice faded into a happy hum as she unbuttoned his fly.

He ran his fingers over his raised scar. "I wouldn't think it was that much of a treat these days. Now, if I were twenty years younger—" He broke off as she slipped her hand under the snaps of his underwear and played along his length.

"If you were twenty years younger, you wouldn't be my Bill," she said, voice husky with emotion. "You're exactly how I want you, trust me." She wrapped her fist around his thick erection, the tip already beading with fluid that slicked her palm. A shudder ran though him as he grabbed her hair and guided her towards his lips, giving her a deep, scorching kiss before tugging her hand away.

Green eyes bright with joy, Laura watched him finish undressing as she pulled the covers back and settled into the welcoming feather bed. She still marveled at the effect life on Earth had on him. An hour a day in the _Galactica _gym, when he could spare the time, had kept him fit enough, but a year of the daily demands of life on the ground had sculpted him and melted away his slight paunch. His arms were bigger now, corded and taut when he held her. On nights when she bent over him to take him deep in her mouth, his thighs were like granite under her hands.

She wondered if he knew she found him beautiful either way. That she would always find the beauty within him, all the way to the end.

.

.

Laura's eyes had narrowed as she examined him, a cat-like smile playing over her lips. His chest expanded with pride as he watched the sunlight turn her auburn hair to gold-veined fire. The hours of labor would have been worth it just to see her like this, pale gold skin accented with a dusting of light freckles along her collarbone, a few loose curls falling over her shoulder to the deep rose shading of her nipples.

"Come to bed, husband." She patted the space next to her.

"I love the way you say that." He slipped into bed and pressed the length of his body against her. "Another promotion I'd given up hope on, then finally got."

"I know the feeling," she whispered as she ghosted her lips over his cheek, his temple, then nipped his sensitive ear lobe, making him shiver. He rose up over her, wanting to memorize the sight below him. Her hair was spread out over the pillow, and her eyes were now open and wide with so much love he thought he could drown there in the sea-green depths.

It was too much. His cock jerked against her belly as if in warning, and he pulled his hips back, leaning in to scatter light kisses along her throat. At her wordless encouragement, he moved his mouth down, closing his teeth gently over one nipple before licking and sucking the flesh to a tight peak. Her hips flexed under his as he moved to her other lush, full breast while her nails scratched lightly over his shoulders. He moved lower as he continued exploring her body. The fragrance of her white-flower perfume, the scent of her warm skin and her increasing arousal, melded into a heady mix that was driving him out of his mind.

His hands were firm on her thighs as he reached her center, pink and gleaming with her moisture. He gave over to a selfish enjoyment of her incomparable taste, a blend of salty sweetness and a faint mineral tang he never got enough of. Her hands wrapped into his hair, digging into his scalp as she pushed against him. One last deep lap and he settled in between her legs, using his lips and tongue to tease closer and closer to her clit, pulling back, then moving in again until her thighs were trembling around him, her low pleading becoming louder and louder.

Her silky walls were tight and hot as he slid two fingers inside her, the fluid from her arousal glistening on her skin. Bill lifted his head enough to drink in the sight of her, lush and swollen from his touch. Her movements were becoming needy, impatient. He lowered again and began the relentless rhythm of pressing and sucking that would give her what she needed to fly apart under him.

His cock leaked pre-cum over the sheets as he felt her belly tighten and her thighs begin to stiffen. She was vibrating like a wire pulled taut, almost to the breaking point, needing just a little more... He slipped a finger under her and pressed against her other opening, slick with her juices. He kept circling and dipping until he was inside her, his finger clutched impossibly tight as her gasping cries grew louder. A final hard stroking of his tongue against her clit and she arched her back off the bed, her hands fisting the sheets as she bucked and twisted against him, sobbing his name and crying out to the gods.

.

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.

As soon as Bill coaxed a second orgasm from her ready, willing body, Laura reached for him, still shaking. As they'd been undressing, she had thought of several delightful experiments they could try, putting the table, the rock chimney, and the thick rug to alternate uses. Now, though, her wants were primal and basic. She wanted him on top of her, inside her, balls-deep and hard while she locked her legs around him.

She wanted to see him, his face, his eyes, as he roared into his own completion. There was something about this place that called for that. She felt like fire was still running through her veins. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered how he'd had her screaming in ecstasy._ Smart man, her husband, to build this far enough away to loosen any inhibitions she might still have. _

He lay beside her, running his hand over her hip. His erection was rock-hard and dark next to the paler skin of his stomach.

"Gods, Laura, you're so beautiful when you come."

Her voice was husky. "I want to see that in you. Lie back."

She put aside her earlier need for the moment and knelt between his legs, letting her hair drift over and around his cock while she turned her head back and forth, teasing him with the feathery ends.

Temptation quickly became too much and she kissed the tip, licking away the moisture she found there, then slowly pulled him into her mouth as deeply as she could. She watched the ridges in his belly tighten and saw his hands gripping into fists. She wanted…_oh, Gods, she wanted it all. _

Laura felt him twitch hard against her lips and was not surprised when he sat up and grabbed her shoulders, turning her so that she was again on her back looking up at him and the sky.

"Don't…want this over too fast," he gasped.

She slipped one leg up over his hip and waited for him to catch his breath. He was backlit against the window's light, his features shadowed as a cloud passed over the skylight. Then the sun returned, highlighting his ocean-blue eyes and the thick lock of hair falling across his brow. She reached up to brush it back, and her hand continued to the nape of his neck as she gave him a deep, languid kiss, dancing her tongue against his.

He groaned and took her wrists, bringing them down to the bed. "Gods, Laura, I need you…need to be joined with you…."

She opened further and pressed her leg against his hip, guiding him. "Take everything you need, Bill. Everything you want."

His grip on her wrists tightened as he slowly made his way into her. He rocked against her center, flexing his hips to get as deep as he could. She met him thrust for thrust, angling up to catch his strokes against her clit as he frakked her hard. There was no distracting chatter from an outside street, no sound of horses clomping by…there was just him, and her, and the quiet of the hills around them as they moved together.

He turned her wrists loose to brace himself against the bed, sweat beading on his forehead. Laura drew one leg up and over his shoulder, pulling a deep groan from his lips. He was hitting that tight bundle of nerves deep inside now, and her palms grew damp as she gripped the brass bars of the headboard. She was almost on the verge of another orgasm…she could feel it building….

His eyes flew open.

"Gods, Laura—" he gritted out, teeth clenched.

She felt him shaking, trembling between her legs. His eyes were wide, staring down at her like blue flame as he groaned again and collapsed over her. She had just begun to stroke his damp hair when he stirred inside her again. His breathing was coarse and heavy.

"Bill? What—_oh_."

She gasped as he began moving again, hard and steady, pounding against her. Laura grabbed for the bars over her head again, anything to anchor her against him. He reached under her and pulled her up higher with one hand as he lost himself in the awkward fierce rhythm, pausing once to look at her with wonderment and crush his lips against hers in a bruising kiss.

She felt a final orgasm spool up inside her again, a sparking, rolling fire. Her soft cries mixed with his louder ones as he grabbed the headboard over her hands and lost himself in her with a roar, face twisted in ecstasy. She felt it then, the throb of him emptying himself into her heat. His sweat mixed with tears as he lowered his head to her shoulder, shaking hard against her, whispering her name again and again.

.

.

Laura looked up and saw the evening sky had begun to darken, the first stars starting to show. They must have dozed afterwards, his head still on her breasts. She stroked his hair and he gave a satisfied hum against her skin.

"You sound happy," she said, smiling at his bone-deep relaxation.

He glanced up at her, his smile touched with awe. "Did you...could you tell what happened?"

"I thought I knew what happened...you frakked me senseless." She fought the giggle that was forming in her throat.

"Well, yeah," he smiled. "But at the end..." Even in the dimming light, she thought she detected a faint blush. "I, um...I came twice. I never-that never..." He traced his fingers over her cheeks, then her lips, sighing deeply. "I love you, Laura." he rested his head back on her breast.

She let him rest there for a minute, letting the feelings of the day wash over her in gentle waves. She loved being "the Adamas," that was a certainty. But to be able to slip away to be just "Bill and Laura" for a day, an evening...she sighed as deeply as he had and leaned back against the pillows, content to have him resting against her.

"I love you, too, Bill."

A flash in the now-dark sky caught her attention. Bill looked up, following her gaze as she looked through the skylight. A shooting star raced across the darkness, its glowing tail spread wide and fiery behind it.

"It's flying towards Earth," he whispered.

"Good choice," she replied, and kissed him again as streaks of white and gold lit the sky.

FIN


End file.
